


So Far Over

by MissRoystonVasey2020



Category: The Stand (TV 2020), The Stand - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Animal Death, Awkward Romance, Bisexual Female Character, Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Graphic Description, Jealousy, Male-Female Friendship, Mutual Pining, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, Past Rape/Non-con, Romantic Friendship, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Spooning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:00:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28982994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissRoystonVasey2020/pseuds/MissRoystonVasey2020
Summary: I wasn't all alone in the world. There were other survivors, like me. My legs sagged and, as the truck and the two motorbikes came into view, I fell to my knees on the harsh asphalt of the road.
Relationships: Harold Lauder/OC
Comments: 30
Kudos: 17





	1. Time I Had Some Time Alone

'It's the end of the world as we know it

It's the end of the world as we know it

It's the end of the world as we know it

And I feel fine.' 

\- R.E.M. - _It's The End of the World As We Know It_

When I first heard the low, animal hum of the approaching engines I wondered if I was dreaming again. I had spent so long alone by then, hiding like a frightened child in the town of Gamble, where my friend Emma and I had just been expecting to pass through on our way to New York. For Emma the stay had become permanent; she had come down with the disease they were calling 'Tube Neck' on September 9th and had died five days later, by which time the locals had started to call it 'Captain Trips.' 

No matter what the disease was called, my best friend had died, all seized up and running with mucus on our cheap motel bed. I had wanted to bury her, in a numb way. As if I were watching somebody else go through this and knew that burying the body is what you were supposed to do. I saw no way to achieve that aim, though. There were three flights of stairs to get down from our floor to the ground, and even then, all I could see from the parking lot was concrete and more concrete. I would have to drag her for a mile to reach any obliging earth. 

I thought dimly about asking the motel manager, a small, round and friendly guy called Charlie, to help me. Then I remembered that he was dead too. So were the few remaining guests who had been here when Emma got sick, I had ascertained from my cursory check of the place. I had pushed a few doors open with the toe of my shoe, recoiling with horror when the tell-tale stench of rot reached my nose. I had suspected that I was the last one left alive in the motel but it was a wrench to be proven right, again and again. 

When Emma had died it had been a day since I'd seen anyone at all, although by that time my world had been limited to that stinking motel room. I had desperately tried to care for my friend, as she slipped deeper into sick delirium. I made brief trips to the vending machines and had, at first, seen a lot of people crawling over the parking lot like busy ants. Obviously packing up and leaving as fast as they could. They all took off in their cars in different directions, all seeming like they believed they were heading the right way to outrun this thing. 

The truth was that no one could outrun it, I'd known that even then, and there was no safe hiding place. The road beside the motel had been thrumming with traffic when Captain Trips had first hit but soon it had become quiet and still as the road that led to Hades. Charlie had looked in on us a few times those first few days, which I'd appreciated because we were strangers and he didn't have to care, but he did. I knew he felt sorry for us because we were two young girls and so very far from home. The last time he'd looked in, he had started coughing.

The time I hadn't spent beside Emma's bed I'd spent trying to reach my parents. Up until September 11th I'd been able to get through to them with no problem. I had paced the parking lot, fending off my mother's terrified questions about what was happening here in the USA and my father's anxious demands that I catch the next flight home to the UK. At first, I told them that I couldn't leave Emma. She was too sick to travel. Then there were no flights. All aircrafts had been grounded. During that call, I had heard my father's voice was thick and croaky. I'd ended it by promising I'd keep safe and that I'd be in touch with them again later that day. I said I loved them and I meant it, hard. Then my calls had stopped going through. 

'Maybe the cell phone network is overloaded?' Charlie suggested, hawking snot into an ancient handkerchief. He insisted he wasn't sick, just had 'allergies, damn allergies!' Sure enough he didn't have the distinctive swelling, at least not yet, but his eyes were too bright. Feverish. 

'You're free to try to get through to them on my telephone in the office,' he continued, 'but I've been trying it all afternoon and nothing. Not even a dial tone. Maybe there's a fault someplace.'

I got the distinct feeling that he was just trying to reassure himself with that line about a fault. This was deliberate, it had to be. The internet had already gone off. It was obvious that the people in authority didn't want us talking to each other, especially not to people overseas. There was a fault, alright, but the fault was right at the top. Soon afterwards the TV had gone off because the power had cut out. I had gone downstairs to see if Charlie had any candles and had found him. Unexpectedly, unceremoniously dead.

He was slumped over the reception desk, a spray of blood and slime fanned out in front of his collapsed face. I saw with a kind of detached fascination that the rack of brochures which had stood on the desk was flecked with the stuff. These were brochures advertising all the fun activities that families may wish to check out in the local area, before they passed through and left Gamble in their rear-view mirror forever. Thick pink mucus had run down the laminated paper face of a young child riding a pony, giving him a strawberry blonde cowlick. I looked at that bloody cowlick, at Charlie, at the snot and the flies which had already begun to gather around his face. Then I reeled away, losing my lunch noisily into a potted plant which stood beside the door. 

That had been then. A day later Emma had rattled out a great long breath and had not taken another. The phones still wouldn't work. Before the news networks had been shut down I had seen, with numb horror, that Captain Trips had spread throughout the UK close on the heels of her American cousin. I had seen enough of the death and destruction around me to understand what that meant. I knew in my heart that my parents were likely dead, or dying, so far away that I had no hope of ever reaching them. I saw my childhood home filling up with flies, attracted by the warm and pungent odour of death. My beloved piano, standing silent, no one to ever touch its beautiful black and white keys again. I couldn't allow my thoughts to rest on that too long, because when I did my body seemed to shut down into a stupor. Physically, I still felt fine - no hint even of a summer cold. 

In the end I left Emma where she lay. I had to. I leaned over and kissed her, feeling my stomach turn at the curdling scent of her swollen flesh, then walked sharply from the room without looking back. After that I knew I had to get out of the motel for good. Out of the motel, out of the town if I could. The only problem was that I couldn't drive. Emma had been the sole driver on our roadtrip, which had been intended as a celebration of our recent graduation from university. Emma, so practical, so funny, so confident, teasing me for lack of even a provisional learner's licence. Twenty-one years old, my best friend since we were eleven, and now doomed to rot forever on a cheap motel bed. I snapped my head from side to side at this thought, as if to shake the idea loose. 

I loaded up a backpack with a few changes of clothes, my toothbrush, and all the non-perishable food I could find. I raided the store room at the back of the office, thinking to myself that Charlie wouldn't mind. I could only find a few cans, some chocolate bars and packets of peanuts, which didn't exactly constitute a nutritional meal. I thought of what my mother would say to see all that sweet stuff - something about it rotting my teeth, I was sure - and then the thought of her dead and rotting herself, across the North Atlantic, threatened to drag me down into the Hell of numbness and apathy again. So I shoved those thoughts down too, for later, and went on my way.

'My way' turned out to be a very short distance, as I never strayed far from the town of Gamble. I walked a little way down the highway, into the town proper, where I found nothing but streets choked with the metal corpses of cars, empty shops with broken windows and - everywhere - the bodies of the townsfolk. I saw no one alive. I reasoned that without knowing how to drive or even how to ride a bike, I could hardly travel very far, although deep down I think that was an excuse. I was scared, scared of what I might find if I ventured too far. 

I did see one dog, which was still clinging limply to life when I found it. It was a little terrier and it lay baking on the pavement, yellow foam gathering at its muzzle. It turned its hot, desperate eyes up to me as I approached and, whilst I watched, wondering if I could do anything to help it, it let out one last shaky whine and then lay still. Those pleading eyes rolled upwards, towards the clear blue sky where, high above, birds turned lazily on the breeze. Carrion birds, I knew. I walked on.

I spent weeks wandering around Gamble, sleeping in any house I could break into and which weren't already occupied by its late owner. Every day I searched for food and for any signs of life, my search becoming wider and wider, more and more desperate. I listened to the little sounds of nature, more deafening in this empty world than I ever could have believed. I watched the breeze moving in the high trees. Sometimes I spoke to myself, and cringed at the alien sound my voice made in the stillness. This area of the country was truly beautiful, like something out of a painting, and the sun shone prettily down on the empty houses below.

I dimly felt that I wanted to reach the ocean, and wondered how long it would take to get there. I had an old crumpled tourist map that I'd found in a store, and I calculated that I was more than 200 miles from the coast. Too far to go on foot. Ridiculous. And what would I do when I reached the ocean? What was the point? The truth was, the ocean seemed like home to me, and that was the only reason I wanted to see it. I wanted to be able to look out at the waves and to know that they were connected, however distantly, to the waves that lapped the coasts of England. I also understood that such a stupid romantic notion had no place in this new world of death.

In all my wandering I hadn't seen anyone else alive, not a single soul. Apart from in my dreams, that was. These were confused, frantic, and several times I found myself waking with the same kind of feverish shout that Emma had done constantly towards the end. My dreams were sometimes sweet, and in these dreams I saw a kind old lady who would speak gentle words to me and comfort me as I cried about my lost home. She told me her name was Mother Abagail, and asked me to remember that I should try to reach her where she lived in Colorado. Hummingbird Home, she said, or something like that. It would slip away as I swum to consciousness, tears drying on my flushed face. 

More often, though, I dreamed of a man. Those dreams terrified me and thrilled me, in a dark, secret way. The man hadn't spoken to me but I felt that he would, and soon. And when he spoke to me the very ground would tremble and I would fall to my knees before him in ecstasy, ready and willing to worship Him. I would wake from these dreams screaming and trembling, and the fear wouldn't leave me for hours. For what reason, I really couldn't say. They were just dreams and nothing to be afraid of.

All this had been going through my mind as I idly plodded along the highway, the trees beside me still lush and green and not yet succumbing to autumn's chilly stranglehold. I had been trying to decide where to head next, and whether my wanderings were ever going to end. I had been alone for so long and I had started to get a feeling - a nasty tickle in the back of my head - that I might really be the only person left alive in the whole world. That had been when I heard the engines approaching, first right on the edge of hearing and then louder, like a mirage growing firmer and more insistently real. 

Crazily, my first instinct was to run into the trees and hide, to wait for them to pass. Perhaps not so crazy - I was a young woman, alone, and completely unarmed. But the practical dangers to my person which I might face never actually occurred to me. It was an animal instinct which told me to flee, what the rabbit feels when it scents the fox on the night air. Thankfully this panic quickly passed and as it ebbed out, the tide of relief and joy came rushing in to fill me. I wasn't all alone in the world. There were other survivors, like me. My legs sagged and, as the truck and the two motorbikes came into view, I fell to my knees on the harsh asphalt of the road.


	2. Not The Only

It was only as the riders grew closer that they seemed to notice me for the first time. It looked like two people on one bike, one on the other, and two people in the two-seater pickup truck. Two people and - I squinted - a dog. I heard one of the riders - a man - call to the one driving the truck to stop. The bikes halted about twenty paces away from me, the truck slightly further, and I got a good look at the man who had spoken. He was in his late thirties perhaps, with dark hair and an open, honest face.

'Miss? Miss, are you alright? Are you hurt?'' 

The man spoke to me, dismounting from his bike and moving closer. He had a strong accent which, being no expert, I could only recognise was from the South. I saw he had a gun strapped across his back but he gave no indication of readying to use it. I looked past him to the others: a young woman of about my age with dark blonde hair, who had been riding behind the man who was speaking; an older man of about sixty with glasses, leaning out of the passenger-side window of the pickup truck; a dark-haired woman, older than me, hands on the truck's wheel; and the other motorcycle rider, a young man, perhaps slightly younger than me. He was lanky, grim-looking. I saw that he, unlike the friendly Mr Accent, had a hand hovering over a gun slung at his hip. 

'Miss, I said are you okay?' 

The first man asked me again, moving closer still. I looked up at him, feeling so overwhelmed that I couldn't speak. A huge grin split my face and suddenly I was laughing, and crying through my laughter, tears spilling down my flushed cheeks. I saw myself from the point of view of these strangers and knew I must have looked unhinged. 

The older man opened the door of the truck and stepped out, came over to us, murmured something to Mr Accent that I couldn't hear. He smiled and approached me with his hands out and palms open, like you would approach a frightened animal.

'Hey, hey. It's okay,' Older Man said, and his voice was low and soft. I tried desperately to get myself under control, pulling myself to my feet and rubbing my hands over my damp face. 

'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry,' I said, in a voice cracking with long disuse. 'I just… I thought maybe I was the only person alive in the whole world, you know?' 

'I can understand that,' Mr Accent replied, smiling kindly. 'But you ain't. There's a whole bunch of people who've survived this. Maybe close to two million, at least that's what the Prof here thinks.' 

With this, he indicated the older man with a jovial nod of his dark head. 'Around here people seem to have cleared out just as the flu was catching on. There aren't so many bodies here as we've seen in other places, and barely anyone else alive. But they're out there, don't worry.'

'You've met other survivors?' I asked, quickly, hopefully. The man's face seemed to darken a little as he nodded and I noticed an uneasy look he shot back in the direction of the two women. The older man shifted and laid a hand on the other man's back. 

'Stuart, I get the feeling we should introduce ourselves. This young lady has obviously had a shock, but we're all friends here. I'm Glen Bateman.' He smiled at me and I returned it, weakly. He seemed kind. 

'This gentleman with no manners is Stu Redman, and this is Frannie Goldsmith, and Dayna Jurgens.' He indicated the young woman, who waved in a tired but cheery fashion, and then the woman who was still sitting in the pickup truck. She raised a hand in greeting and slipped out of the truck's cabin.

'How are you doing?' Dayna asked, and flashed me a brief, slightly strained smile. 

The dog followed her and came running to Glen, then to me, barking and sniffing happily. I bent to stroke him and marveled in his enthusiastic licks. I had thought that perhaps the last dog in the world had died back in Gamble, in front of my eyes on that hot pavement.

'That young fiend is Kojak,' Glen laughed. 'He won't bite. Might lick you to death, though.' He seemed to remember that he hadn't finished introducing the party and turned to indicate the young man, still standing beside his bike. 'And last but certainly not least, this is Harold Lauder.' 

The young man - Harold, I supposed - nodded to me in a polite enough way, but I caught a brief grimace on his face as Glen said his name. Like he hated hearing it in the older man's mouth.

'Pleased to meet you all,' I said, my mouth dry and head suddenly swimming. 'My name's Christine Ivers. Chrissy.'

'You're not from around here, are you Chrissy?' Stu asked and I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak again yet.

'Great skills of observation you have there, East Texas,' Glen tutted towards Stu, with a humorous twinkle in his eyes. He turned back towards me and raised an eyebrow. 'You're from Britain, I take it? England, if I might be so bold as to guess.'

I nodded again and suddenly - whether it was the reminder of home or my overwhelming joy at finding these people, I had no idea - my eyes brimmed with tears again.

'I'm so happy I've met you,' I choked out and put my hands over my face, embarrassed. I jumped, alarmed, as I felt arms close around me. My eyes snapped open and I saw that it was the woman Glen had called Frannie. She had come over to me and drawn me into a hug. 

'It's okay,' she said, a sad note of understanding in her voice. She held me as I broke down and sobbed, as I hadn't done even when Emma had died and I'd had to walk away from her for the last time. 'It's okay. You can come along with us, if that's what you want. We won't leave you behind.' 

This only made me cry harder. I felt ridiculous. The first living people I'd seen in weeks and already they thought I was a basket case.

'That's okay, I don't - I don't have to - ' I spluttered, unsure how to finish the sentence I'd started. 

'Nonsense. Of course you can throw your lot in with us, if you'd like to,' Glen said, and Stu made a hearty noise of agreement. 'We're all just a misfit group of lost toys, after all. We only found each other recently and there's plenty of room. Although, if you have your own sleeping bag and tent, that would be helpful. I'm not sure you'd want to share with me and Kojak.'

I laughed and held up my pack, nodding. Frannie dropped her arm to my waist but kept it there, a comforting weight. 

'So where've you been staying?' Dayna asked, casting a glance around at the empty highway.

'Gamble, mostly. It's this little town just up the road there. That's where I was when the flu hit, and then, well… I couldn't leave. I've just sat there. Not seen anyone or anything - living, that is. It's been awful.' 

Dayna let out a snort. 

'Honey, you should be thankful for that,' she said, eyes going somewhere else for a second. I looked at her uncertainly, a little confused. Then the moment passed and she struck up a conversation with Glen and Stu about the town, and what supplies it might yield.

The young man, Harold, said nothing. He stood by his motorbike, never coming closer to the five of us as we stood talking, fiddling with his pack which was strapped onto the seat. Every so often he would cast quick glances around the faces of the others, furtively, as if he were only observing the scene from outside. I wondered for the first time what the story was behind this band of 'misfits', as Glen had termed them. How on earth had this disparate group all found each other in the first place?

I was snapped out of my reverie by Glen, who was speaking to me again. 

'Now, Christine, for the million dollar question: can you ride a motorbike?'


	3. The Passenger

I had hoped I could ride in the pickup truck, considering I had never even so much as sat on a motorcycle before, but Glen and Dayna were already in the cabin, with Kojak on Glen's lap, leaping around with great excitement. It looked like I was going to have to ride a pillion on one of the bikes. Frannie was riding behind Stu and I wondered in passing if they were lovers. There seemed to be some understanding between them, in any case. 

Dayna had slotted herself back into the driver's seat of the truck, next to Glen, who was climbing inside with Kojak at his heels. She caught me looking at her a little too long but, to my relief, she only smiled and winked at me. 

'Hey, Chrissy, why don't you ride with Harold?' Stu suggested. 

He called this over his shoulder and so didn't see the seemingly involuntary wince which passed over Frannie's face as he said it, although I did. Harold, who hadn't seemed terribly interested in our conversation about my transportation, looked up with unmistakable annoyance at Stu volunteering him as my rider.

'You know, Christine,' Glen began in a diplomatic tone, 'if you'd be more comfortable riding in the truck, I don't mind switching to ride with Harold. Dayna drives too fast for my taste anyway. She almost killed me on the last bend.' 

'Suits me, old timer,' Dayna said, laughing. 'You're boring as shit anyway.'

I'd looked at Harold as Glen spoke and what I'd seen had taken me aback. A look of intense contempt had twisted his face, his low brows knitting together over his wide, furious eyes.

Then it passed in a moment, so fast I almost didn't believe that I'd seen it. His face was quickly, carefully blank again, but it was very clear to me that he was not happy at the idea of Glen clinging on behind him.

'I'm happy to ride a bike,' I said quickly, before whatever strange truce was at work here could be broken. 'Truly. It makes no difference to me how I travel, just as long as you don't leave me behind in this town.'

'Sure,' Harold said, stiffly. Although I don't think he relished the idea of a pillion, he obviously felt that having me on his bike was preferable to Glen at any costs. 'I don't mind you riding with me.'

He turned to me with a tight, strained smile, looking at me directly for the first time. His smile didn't reach his eyes, I saw, which were pale blue and yet somehow dark, like a pool of deceptively deep water. A person might swim out into water like that, not realising they were out of their depth until it was much too late.

The awkward moment lingered, stretched thin, and then the tension broke. Glen shrugged, got back into the truck. Everyone began to ready themselves to leave. 

'Thank you,' I said to Harold, watching him move back towards his bike. He walked with a kind of jerky swing from his hunched shoulders, like he was constantly readying himself against attack. 'I really am grateful for this.'

'You're welcome, Christine.' He smiled again. A sickly, weak smile, more like a grimace. He swung his leg over the bike then gestured to the seat behind him. 'It's all yours.'

''I - uh - haven't ever done this before,' I said, in a hushed voice. 'And please do call me Chrissy.' 

I tentatively clambered on behind him.

'Chrissy', he corrected himself, and looked back at me with an odd, hesitant expression. He looked like he was about to say something else, but then Stu was speaking and Harold's head snapped back around, away from me.

'Right, OK then!' Stu called over at us. 'Let's make tracks. We're losing the day.'

I rested my hands lightly on Harold's sides, suddenly wishing I had insisted on riding in the truck with Dayna after all. I couldn't tell if Harold liked me but I was betting not. I'd bet he didn't like any of the others either, for that matter. The look he had shot Stu when he spoke had been very much like hatred. 

'You need to hold me tighter.'

'What?' I asked, jolted back to reality. Harold audibly sighed.

'You're going to have to hold me tighter if you don't want to slide straight off. Obviously. You really haven't ridden a bike before, have you?'

'No, I told you I hadn't.' I replied, a little hotly. He was talking to me like I was a child. All smiles were gone from him now; it was like that had been an act, and an exhausting one at that.

Unwillingly, I snaked my arms under his and took a firmer grip about his waist. I was slightly embarrassed but then again, at this point in my week, hugging onto a stranger should have been the least of my concerns. As the motorcycle thrummed into life and we started to move, I rested my cheek lightly against the back of his dark jacket, without even noticing that I was doing it. 

He smelled like he had been on the road for days, like sweat and earth, but I didn't find it unpleasant. The warmth of his body suddenly made me feel very tired. I forced myself to sit up, terrified of falling asleep and becoming just another roadside snack for the carrion birds.

'When I lean, you lean too,' Harold called over his shoulder. 'And don't fall asleep. I don't want to lose you back there.'

The words were helpful, kind even, but he delivered them in such a miserable, brusque tone that it sounded more like a threat.

We rode for what felt like miles without speaking again, the cool wind on my face helping to keep me alert. Once I got over my instinctive terror, I actually rather enjoyed riding pillion. Harold and I followed Stu and Frannie, who were leading, and Glen and Dayna followed us. I watched the dark trees whipping past and looked up to the clear pale sky, so bright and boundless it took my breath away.

It was only then that I realised I had never actually asked where we were going. I asked Harold, speaking too loudly into his ear over the roar of the wind and making him wince. He shot his sarcastic reply back over his shoulder, and the answer he gave did almost make me fall off the bike in shock.

'Don't you know? We're obviously following our dreams to go see the old lady in Hemingford Home, Colorado. Where else?'


	4. Outside Looking In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harold is 18 in this fic. For some reason, I had thought he was explicitly aged-up to 18 in the 2020 TV show, but I've since realised that's not necessarily true and he may be 16, as he is in the book - but in any case, he is 18 in this fic.

The journey to Colorado continued in much the same way for a time; we'd ride all day, breaking a couple of times to eat and stretch our legs, and to refuel wherever we got the opportunity. And in those first few days, Harold and I barely passed a single word with each other. For hours I'd listen with envy and increasing boredom to Frannie laughing with Stu, or Glen and Dayna's voices carrying back to me on the wind. And I'd stare into the impassive back of Harold Lauder's head. 

I couldn't understand why he seemed to have taken such an instant dislike to me. I kept trying to start a conversation with him, which was not an easy task when you're hanging onto someone for your life as the countryside speeds by. He would only reply in clipped tones, huffing his curt words out with his hot breath into the chill air.

'So - uh - where did you learn to ride a motorcycle?' I had asked once, tears in my eyes from the wind. I had actually felt him sigh at my words, my arms clamped so hard around his scant ribs that I noticed every rise and fall of his lungs. When he replied, his voice was tight and small.

'Back home. In Ogunquit.'

'Oh, really?' I'd replied, sounding almost hysterically polite, like a society lady determined that her dinner party will be a success despite the guests all detesting each other. 'And where's that?'

'It's in Maine. On the - on the coast.'

'And you lived there your whole life?'

'Yes.' He almost whispered that last word, then grunted out a cough. 'Do you mind if we stay quiet? I have to concentrate on the road.'

I gave up.

'Sure,' I said, deflating. I wanted to be on good terms with him, this grim-faced young man, but if he didn't want to give me a chance then that was that. He still intrigued me, though. I couldn't understand why he - alone amongst the others - seemed to be determined not to join in with any of their laughter or conversation. 

To say he was sullen would be an understatement. It was like the universe had recently dealt him some great injustice, a betrayal still too raw for him to process. We'd all been through Hell, I supposed, so I tried not to feel too badly towards him for shutting me out. But it sure made for an awkward journey.

When we stopped to make camp on that first day, September 28th, I sidled up to Frannie and engaged her in conversation. Dayna had pitched her tent some distance away and had already turned in for the night, saying she felt tired. The others seemed to treat her with a kind of gentle consideration which I couldn't yet place, being still a stranger. Stu and Glen were chatting whilst fixing up something to eat and Harold was alone, as always, away from the others. On the edge of things, on the outside looking in.

'So Frannie, how did you all end up travelling together?' I asked, sitting down beside her and offering her a chocolate bar from my pack. 

'I started off with Harold, back in our hometown, just about two weeks ago,' Frannie told me, between munches on the bar. 

I raised my eyebrows. Somehow I hadn't reckoned the two of them as having the oldest connection amongst the group.

'Did you know each other… before?' I asked, morbidly curious.

'Yeah,' she replied, frowning slightly. 'Harold was my friend Amy's younger brother and I used to babysit him sometimes. Not recently, obviously,' Fran giggled suddenly at the thought. 'When he was younger.' 

'And you both survived the flu? That's amazing.'

'That's what Harold said. Like winning the megabucks lottery, is how he put it.' She sighed. 'It didn't feel so lucky at the time. The whole town, everyone I knew my whole life, gone.'

'No. I don't think luck really entered into it, Fran.'

We were both quiet for a while and the only sound was the crackle of the fire. 

'So then we set off together - me and Harold, that is - and we ran into Stu. But Harold… Harold didn't like Stu. Didn't trust him not to… not to rape me, or something.' 

Her voice had grown low and conspiratorial and I drew closer to her, glancing around to check that Harold wasn't in hearing distance. I saw with relief that he was busy over something in his lap. Scribbling in a notebook, it looked like. 

Earlier, I had seen him watching us talk from across the fire, his face illuminated in its harsh glow. He looked away when he saw I'd noticed him, but his eyes had been suspicious, and somehow sad.

'Why would he think something like that?' I asked. Frannie shrugged, rolled her eyes.

'That's just Harold for you. He doesn't trust anyone.'

'He definitely doesn't trust me,' I snorted. 'He barely speaks to me. I don't think he likes me at all.' 

Frannie frowned and slowly drew her tongue around her teeth.

'I don't think that's true - or at least, not in particular. He just acts like he hates everyone. Apart from me, I guess. He's always been like it. Amy used to say…' 

Frannie seemed to think better of what she'd been about to say and shook her head a little. Started her sentence over.

'Well, anyway. Then we had to leave Stu. He went off and met Glen, and Harold and I carried on. We were riding together and we got…' Frannie's eyes glazed a little and she trailed off, then seemed to remember what she was saying. 

'We got attacked. By this guy. He was… he was grabbing women and building himself a _zoo_.' She spit the last word and I looked at her, eyes wide.

'A zoo? Like a … like some kind of harem?'

'Yeah,' she nodded. 'He had Dayna already. He'd been… Well. It was awful. He put us in handcuffs and started really… beating Harold, hurting him in front of me. Even now I keep seeing his eyes staring up at me, terrified. I couldn't help him. I was so scared that he'd be killed. But then Stu and Glen came along and - and Dayna killed that sick fucker.' 

Her eyes brightened when she said Stu's name. I breathed out, long and slow.

'God. Frannie. That sounds… God.' I was dumbstruck. I thought of the dark, tired circles around Dayna's eyes. An experience like that, I thought, may never leave you.

'Yeah,' she said and nodded again. The enormity of the horror she was describing couldn't be adequately put into words, so I said nothing. Frannie stared into the fire. 

'That was a couple days ago, I think. The days are all blending into one now. But anyway, we decided to go to Hemingford Home that night. It was an easy decision really, since we realised we're all having the same dreams about Mother Abagail.' 

I frowned uneasily at Frannie's mention of the dreams. I'd dreamed of Mother Abagail too, of course. But I mostly dreamed of the Other. The Dark Man. And when I dreamed of him, I woke yearning for something, terrified and yet exhilarated. 

From what I understood, the others - Glen, Stu, Frannie and Dayna - either didn't dream of the Dark Man at all, or did so only in the depths of their worst nightmares. They didn't have sickly sweet dreams, which woke them sweating and longing and free, like I did. 

I had no idea if Harold was dreaming, as I'd never broached the subject. I didn't think he'd tell me, even if I did. 

'So, you and Stu…' I began, in an effort to change the subject. I nudged Frannie gently and she blushed, cutting her eyes over to where he stood with Glen. 'Are you two… you know…?' 

I laughed, then so did she, and all at once I felt I was back in school with Emma, giggling over the boys in our class.

'No, no, we're not together.'

'But you'd like to be?'

'Yes. Yeah, I'd like to be with Stu. But it's - ' she hesitated, suddenly looking unhappy. 'It's complicated.'

'Why?' I asked, puzzled. From what I'd seen, it seemed clear that Stu had feelings for Frannie too, and wasn't it natural that two people should seek comfort in each other at the end of the world? 

Frannie grimaced and I followed her gaze over to the corner of our little camp, where Harold sat.

'Because of Harold?' I guessed, confused at her meaning. Then understanding dawned. 'Oh. Harold… likes you?' 

'Oh, Chrissy, I'd like to tell you - sometimes I feel like I have so many secrets stored up inside me that I'm going to burst - but I really shouldn't.' She hesitated. 'I guess I could tell you, if you promise to keep it a secret?'

'I promise. I don't have anyone to tell anyway.'

'Thank you. It's so good to have someone the same age to talk to again. You remind me of my friend Grace Duggan, a little...' I waited again for her to remember her train of thought. She sighed and shifted in her seat. 

'A little while ago, just before we met up with Stu and Glen and Dayna, Harold told me he loved me. He tried to kiss me.'

'Oh. That's tricky, if you don't like him back?'

Frannie's eyes widened and she laughed a little, shook her head.

'No, no, I don't. Not like that, anyway. He's like - like a little brother, or something. But anyway, the way he told me… It was a little scary, actually. It was like he believed that the world had ended, just so we could be together.'

'What? That's crazy.'

'Oh, I don't know if he really meant it. He'd barely slept. I think he was losing it a little. He was almost begging me, he kept saying _please, please_.'

I winced, in sympathy for both parties. 

'What did you do?'

'I pushed him away and I told him… Well, I told him that I didn't love him. He didn't take it too well.'

'Yeah, I can imagine that.' 

I really could. I might have only known the angry, sullen boy for a short few hours at that time, but already I'd got a feel for how he would take a rejection like that. Badly, I imagined.

'And ever since,' Frannie continued, glumly picking at a spot on her shoe, 'Harold has changed. I can't explain it. He always got on my nerves before but he was like a puppy, you know? Hanging around the place, sneaking looks at me whenever I was with Amy at their house. He was a little creepy, maybe, but he never crossed the line into making me feel... nervous. I mean, he edged towards it plenty of times, but he never crossed it. Now he seems … so far over that line that he's found some new line, even further out.' 

'You're scared of Harold?' I asked, a little doubtfully. He seemed highly strung, yes, and somehow interior, closed in on himself. But I didn't think he was capable of hurting anyone, least of all a girl he claimed to love.

'Not scared of him, exactly. More - oh, I don't know!' Frannie sighed and shook her head. 'Anyway. I don't want to talk about Harold anymore. How about you? Do you have a boyfriend, back in England?'

She seemed to realise what she'd said just as the words left her mouth and threw a hand up to cover it, quite comically.

'Oh, I'm sorry. I guess I just… I forget sometimes. I forget how much has changed, just for a second, and then I go saying some stupid thing…' 

'No, it's ok. I didn't have a boyfriend anyway. Or a girlfriend. I was travelling with my best friend, Emma, but she - well - you know.'

'Yeah,' Frannie sighed again and pulled me into a hug. 'I know. Boy, don't I know.' I let her pull me in and we sat there for a moment, like kids, holding each other. I closed my eyes. 

When I opened them I caught sight of Harold across the fire, once again staring at the two of us together, before quickly looking away. He's outside, I thought to myself once again. And he's always watching. 

After that, on my second day traveling with the group, I made more of an effort to speak to Harold. After Frannie's story I felt for him and wanted to extend an olive branch, if I could. He wasn't having any of it, though. 

In fact, he seemed even more suspicious of me than the first day, his words to me even more curt and clipped. I asked him about anything I could think of - about his home state of Maine, about the weather, about his favourite books. He rebuffed all of these topics. He seemed wary of me, for some reason I couldn't understand. But still, in the evenings when we made camp, I would catch him looking at me, that sullen, mournful expression on his face, and something else there too. Curiosity, quickly stamped upon.

On the third day I simply slipped onto the bike behind him, clamped my arms around his middle, and shut up. He obviously preferred it that way, I thought, and I had better things to worry about than trying to break the disagreeable shell of Harold Lauder. The dreams had come back, and now the Dark Man had made me an offer. 


	5. Your Knuckles White, Your Fingers Curl

_I'm in a desert. I've never been here before but I know, immediately, that this is the Mojave. The sky above me is the limitless roof of a dark cathedral, the stars - so many stars! - sparkling eyes in the black expanse. There are other lights than these, I see. A huge sign rises out of the shadows, fluorescents glowing offensively to my night-blind eyes. The sign says: Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas._

_I hear a noise behind me in the dunes. The click of bootheels. Boots should surely not click across sand like that, but they do. I know who approaches long before I turn around, but I still tremble when I do so. He is tall, and he is handsome, and he is terrible. I look up into his face and my knees don't buckle, much to my surprise. He smiles._

_'Pleased to meet you, Christine. Hope you guess my name.'_

_'You're - you're Him. The Dark Man.'_

_His smile widens. He has a great number of strong, white teeth. He sweeps his hand across my face and then we are standing behind a roulette table. The desert still rises around us but here we stand, watching the wheel spin and the little white ball clatter and bounce._

_'That's right, sweet girl. But you can call me Flagg. Randall Flagg. Two Gs.'_

_'What do you want?' I ask him huskily, powerless to keep the whine out of my voice._

_'It's not a question of what I want, Christine, Christine the May Queen,' he chuckles, turning the rhyme into a melody. 'It's what you want that matters, right here and right now.'_

_'What I… want?' I repeat, stupidly._

_A chair appears and I sink heavily into it, watching as Randall Flagg reaches out and gives the roulette wheel another spin. As I watch, I see that instead of numbers, the wheel has little pictures on the red and black squares. Some I can hardly make out, but some I can. One is a smoking gun barrel, one a rattlesnake, one looks like - I squint at it - like the keys of a piano. One looks like a man wearing an eyepatch, another like a bird of prey. A falcon, maybe, or a hawk. And one picture is clearly an aeroplane in flight._

_'It's a simple question, ain't it Chrissy-my-dear? What do you want? A man, to hold you at night, keep you warm? Or a woman?' He cocks his eyebrow and I shiver._

_'Or is it to see your homeland again? The green hills you can see from your bedroom window, the fields, so different from our landscape here in the good old U S of A? Your home. The house you grew up in.' He smiles and I see the universe in that smile, the stars in his sparkling white teeth._

_'Because I can give that to you.'_

_As he speaks the wheel begins to slow, the white ball still hopping and rolling. I find that I don't want it to stop moving. I know that whatever it lands on will be my destiny and I don't want to see. I am afraid._

_'How?' I croak, and his eyes glint dangerously._

_'I have pilots, Christine. I've got at least two of them heading in my direction and there'll be more, in time. And they'll train more pilots. Do you know how many of them that old witch has? A big fat nothing, that's how many. Shit, she hasn't even got a proper doctor! I have. I'll have surgeons, technicians… and aviators.'_

_'You expect me to believe that you'd waste one of your pilots on a private flight across the Atlantic, just for me?'_

_I'm shocked at my own tone. The words escape me unbidden, like a rush of vomit. Randall Flagg pauses a moment and his eyes are two hard, black stones._

_'Maybe not at first, I grant you that. But soon, Christine. Very soon. I'd be happy to send you on your merry way across the pond - Hell, I might even come along too! Call it a diplomatic mission.'_

_He laughs and I shudder, picturing those bootheels hitting the ground outside my front door. The grass shriveling and dying where he walks._

_'And in return, well… all I want is a little thing. Such a small thing in return, Christine.'_

_I reach out tentatively and touch the roulette wheel. I don't know why I do it. The little ball bounces up into my hand and I close my fingers over it, instinctively. When I open them I see that I'm not holding the ball at all but rather a small black stone, with a red flaw through the middle. The flaw blinks up at me like a glazed eye. I glance up at Flagg and see his eyes are on my hands. And they are hungry eyes._

_I feel as though those eyes are yawning voids, sucking me in, sucking me dry. I open my mouth and I try to scream. The sound comes but from far away, echoing through the vast, cold expanse of the desert. I scream and as my cry splits the night air I drop the stone, and as it arcs through the air I feel that I'm spinning down with it, down and down and down._

* * *

'Chrissy? Chrissy, are you ok?'

A low voice woke me, close to my ear. I felt hot breath on my face and I jerked up, hands out, blind in the shadows of the night. For a moment I was sure that it was Him, that he had taken me, and I felt hot tears of terror slip down my cheeks. A shape moved and caught in the moonlight and I clutched at it, frantic. In my mind I saw Flagg's face over me, as I had seen Him so many times in dreams. But it wasn't Flagg's shirt I was grasping, like a drowning man grasps onto a life vest in stormy waters. It was Harold Lauder's.

His eyes were wide and his thin, pinched face was drawn, a picture of concern. The flap of my tent was open and the chill air was flooding in. Harold was kneeling over me and I had grabbed him as if I were about to strangle him - or kiss him. This realisation brought me to my senses and I dropped my hands, then brought them to my face, trying to rub away the sheen of sweat and tears.

'Shit, Harold. I'm sorry. Did I wake you?'

Harold shifted uncomfortably and glanced behind him, through the open tent flap, towards the other tents. I followed his gaze and saw that, thankfully, no one else seemed to have woken up.

'No. I, uh… I heard you crying. Moaning, really.' Harold whispered. 

I was suddenly very aware of his presence leaning over me, inside my tent. The flap was open. Had I left it open, or had he opened it? The image of him unzipping my tent flap and climbing inside, even if I'd been screaming bloody murder, made me uneasy. He didn't move from his spot kneeling beside me but continued, still in a hushed tone: 

'I didn't want to wake you, but you were saying… things. I was worried about you.'

'I'm… I'm fine. Thank you Harold. But I was just dreaming.' 

It struck me, bizarrely, that this was the most he had ever willingly spoken to me in all our time together. I struggled up into a sitting position and my sleeping bag fell away. Harold's eyes shifted over my body and I suddenly felt very naked, despite the shirt I wore to sleep. He moistened his lips and looked away, harshly; he had seen the discomfort on my face. 

'You were dreaming about Him, weren't you?' Harold whispered, still not looking at me. His expression was unreadable in the gloom. I recoiled like he'd struck me.

'No. Of course not.' 

My skin flushed cold with fear and my voice was flat, hard. He turned to meet my gaze and I saw in his eyes a feverish kind of light. The light of recognition. 

'You don't need to lie to me, Christine. I dream about him too. Not nightmares. Good dreams.'

'I don't know what you're talking about. How did you hear me, anyway?' I spluttered, trying to get ahold of myself. Harold always pitched his tent far away from the rest of the group, as if even in his sleep he rejected our company. 

When I said this he looked uncomfortable and his pale-dark eyes were on me again, darting over my face. 

'I wasn't asleep. I don't find it easy. So I was awake, and I was walking past your tent, and - and you left the flap unzipped, so I couldn't help but hear.'

'Were you spying on me?' Now it was his turn to look like he'd been punched. 

'No, of course not. That's pretty disgusting. I was trying to do a nice thing here, and if you're just going to accuse me of being some kind of - of pervert, a freak -' Harold hissed. 

He tried to stand up but couldn't, the little one-man tent catching the top of his head, and instead he had to sidle awkwardly backwards like a magician taking a bow. I started after him.

'No, Harold, don't be like that!'

I struggled out of the tent, my sleeping bag snagging on my foot, and tripped on it. I stumbled and grabbed onto his arm as he began to stalk away. He made a loud grunt of surprise and I winced, looking around at the other tents in the dark. Thankfully, no one seemed to be stirring. 

'Hey!' He exclaimed, annoyance and surprise in his voice.

'Shh!' I hushed him, and looked towards the trees which stood beyond our camp. 

I was wide awake, the dream still fresh in my mind, and I found I needed to talk to him more than I ever had needed to speak with anyone before. For some unfathomable reason he seemed to be the only other person who could really understand what was happening to me every night when I closed my eyes. 

'Can we talk, please?' I hissed, pulling on his arm, drawing him towards the woods. 'Over here. Away from the others.' 

He looked at me long and hard and I thought he was going to say no. His throat worked convulsively. Then he quirked his thin mouth and shrugged. 

'Sure. If you want. I've got all night.'

Shakily I nodded, pleased but a little surprised. Together, we turned and made our way into the trees. 


	6. Getting Dark, Too Dark To See

We walked through the trees, the moonlight clearing a path for us through the shadows. I reflected, too late, that I should have grabbed my jacket. The air was raising gooseflesh on my bare arms, although winter still felt far off. 

Harold walked a little ahead of me and kept his face down, picking his footfalls more carefully than really necessary. Avoiding my gaze, I supposed. After a short distance we came to a natural clearing where a tree had fallen, the dead husk of it laying still where it had come down. I sat on it, wincing as my legs were prickled by its rough bark. Harold waited a moment, then joined me, still looking anywhere but in my direction.

I watched him from the corner of my eye. He looked nervous, which was not an expression I'd ever seen on his face. Irritation, yes. Suspicion, yes. Unhappiness, certainly. But never nervousness. He was quite attractive, I decided, when he relaxed, his features not tangled up with contempt or dismay. His hair fell into his eyes - those curious, unblinking blue eyes - and his cheek bones were high and proud, like a carving of some lesser angel.

He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing in his rangy neck, and I realised I'd been staring at him. I flushed. We sat in silence for beats, minutes. Now we were alone, I had no idea how to start. 

'You _were_ dreaming of Him, weren't you?' Harold said, softly.

'Yes,' I sighed, all pretence gone. 'Yes, I dream about Him all the time. You?'

'Yeah,' he replied with a shaky breath, and suddenly it was like all his pent-up thoughts were coming out in a desperate rush. 'Yeah, every night. It's got so I hate sleeping. Every night I see Him standing there in the desert, offering me… offering me things, and it's like he knows every thought I've ever had, every secret, every…' He swallowed again. 'Every fantasy. And I hate it, I hate having Him in my head, but - '

'But it feels good.' I finished for him. He looked at me gratefully and licked his lips. Nodded. Suddenly I saw another Harold Lauder sitting next to me, not the abrasive and supercilious one of the daytime but a very lonely young man, terrified and unsure.

'And the others just don't understand,' he continued, his voice becoming reedy and hoarse. 'They all dream about the old woman. You know I've never dreamed about her, not once? What does that say about me? The others see Him, yeah, but not like I do. They have nightmares about Him. For me, it's like - like the best dream imaginable.'

I nodded, drawing in a long, deep breath. 

'He offered me a way to get home, back to the UK. He said he'd make me a deal. He didn't tell me what the price would be. He said His name is Flagg, but I don't think that's really his name. I'm not sure he even has a name, the way you and I do. Maybe He's the Devil, I don't know. All I know is, when I see Him, I want to get away from Him - but I want Him to take me, too.'

Harold gave me a look of deepest understanding, so deep it frightened me.

'Fran... Fran said that she runs away from Him in her dreams. He chases her. He's never chased me. He doesn't need to, I guess. And He knows it. The old witch does too, that's why she's written me off as a lost cause.'

He sounded so miserable when he said that last that I reached out and touched his hand. He jerked back, as if I'd slapped him.

'Don't… Don't do that,' he said, in what was probably intended to be a snarl but came out as a whine.

'Do what?' I asked, nonplussed. 

'Pretend that you like me. You don't like me. I've seen you, you know. Laughing at me with - with Fran.'

'What? Harold, I haven't laughed at you with anyone.' 

'So she hasn't said anything about me?'

My uncomfortable silence was all the answer that he needed. He stood up, face contorting in a bitter kind of triumph, and towered over me.

'I knew it. She's told you all about - about what happened between us, and I bet you both got a big laugh out of it. Well, laugh it up! It's pretty funny! I love her and she's fucking that goddamn - goddamn redneck! But - '

'Harold, she isn't … doing that with Stu. I don't think, anyway. And even if she is, I don't think it would have any bearing on... your situation.'

'The Hell it wouldn't!' Harold snarled, spit flying. He suddenly looked quite unhinged. His face, which I'd thought was angelic only moments ago, had collapsed into an agonised mask of despair. 

I sighed inwardly. When I had set out on this midnight walk with him, I hadn't been planning to play therapist over his issues with Frannie. I stood, grasped him gently by the shoulders and pulled him back down to sit beside me. He was so much taller than me that I had to stand on my tiptoes to do it. He moved but unwillingly, his body stiff, as if unused to another person's touch.

'It wouldn't,' I repeated firmly. 'Look. I know how you feel, Harold. Trust me, I do. You love someone who doesn't feel the same way, and it sucks. But even if Stu hadn't come along, I don't think Fran would've given you any other answer than the one she gave you. That's it.'

His eyebrows shot up and he let out a humourless bark of laughter.

'Great. Thanks. So she'd find me repulsive no matter what, is that what you're saying? And that's supposed to be better, somehow?' 

He laughed again, hoarse and mirthless, his eyes wild. 'God, you should be a fucking motivational speaker!'

'Harold!' I exclaimed, trying not to lose my temper. 'That's not what I'm saying and I think - I think you know it, deep down. And the way I see it, you have a choice. You can let this fester inside you, take root and - and twist you up from the inside out, or you can just… just get over it. Move on. Accept that she just doesn't feel that way about you, but that someone else will, one day.' 

I saw his nostrils flare, his jaw ticking, and I ploughed on.

'Maybe that scares you, I don't know. Maybe you've got so comfortable with the hurt, so at home in it, that you're scared to let it go. Frankly, it makes little difference to me what choice you make. I have other problems right now.'

Harold had sat open-mouthed throughout my speech and seemed to take several moments to remember how to speak. I waited, trembling breath hanging in the air, too cold and tired to even begin to wonder if I had been too harsh. When he did answer it was in a hateful sneer, although his voice cracked.

'Oh, I'm sorry Christine. I've been keeping you from your big problems? Holy shit, that's too bad. Let's - let's just think about _your_ problems for a second. You're the outcast, the one in this group everybody fucking hates - oh, no, my mistake, that's me! You're the one no one trusts, the fuck-up, the freak - oh, whoops, that's me again! I got Fran across two states, I saved her life, I - I sucked gas and found us bikes and food and guns, and I kept her safe, and what kind of thanks did I get? A big _fuck-you_. So yeah, tell me again, how _hard_ your life is, how hard it must be for you to have Fran and Stu and Glen and Dayna - even the _fucking dog_ \- like you more in three days than they ever liked me. It must suck pretty bad, for you to be such a - such a _bitch.'_

The last word exploded out of him, almost unwillingly. Beats of silence. I collected myself. His panting, huffing breaths filled the chill air between us as the awful moment stretched on and on. 

'If you had taken even - even a single moment to get to know me,' I began, and was surprised to find that my voice was barely shaking at all, 'you'd know that I'm utterly, totally alone, 4000 miles away from my home. I'm stuck here until I die. None of us will ever see our families again, I know that, but I'm not even going to see what became of mine. Were they alone when they died? Were they buried or are they just rotting where they fell? I don't know. I won't ever know. Do you understand that?' 

My eyes welled with tears and I cursed myself, not wanting to waste them on Harold. I rubbed them away, roughly, not moving my gaze from his rictus of misery.

'So yes, maybe your friends like me more than they like you. Probably because I'm not an enormous asshole to everyone, all the time. And yes, the girl you love rejected you. But - and I mean this genuinely, from the bottom of my heart - you need to _get over it._ '

With that I stormed off, stamping blindly through the trees, blind from tears and from rage. I thought, self-centredly, that I'd hear Harold coming after me, but I didn't. I got into my tent, resolutely zipping up the flap, and struggled back into my sleeping bag. I lay down, shaking, for a long time, willing sleep to come. Still, I didn't hear Harold come back. 

At least an hour had passed when I heard a small sound outside my tent - right beside my face, separated from me only by the thin canvas. There was a dark shadow there in the moonlight and I knew that someone was crouching only inches from me. Harold. 

'Christine? Christine, are you awake?'

He spoke so quietly it was almost a breath, a sigh. I considered faking sleep. Didn't.

'Yeah, Harold?' I whispered back.

'Can I… Can I talk to you?'

'We're talking now, aren't we?' I retorted, a little bitterly.

'Can I come in? Please?' He sounded small, pathetic.

I lay still for a moment. I had been so angry, but a gnawing part of me cried out that it wasn't Harold who had trapped me here. It wasn't Harold who had kept my family from me, or who had killed Emma in front of my eyes. And it wasn't Harold who had persuaded me to take this trip in the first place. I only had myself to blame for that one, and I did blame myself, hard.

'Okay,' I relented, with a sense of falling. 'You can come inside.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have about half of the rest of this fic written, and this was actually the first chapter I wrote - there's a lot of anger and angst in this one but I felt like it was in character for both my OC and Harold at that moment. Hopefully things will be looking up for them in future chapters...


	7. Always In This Twilight

'I took the stars from my eyes, and then I made a map

And knew that somehow I could find my way back

Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too

So I stayed in the darkness with you.'

\- Florence and the Machine - _Cosmic Love_

I sat up in the shadows and heard, rather than saw, Harold unzip the flap of the tent. I could only see little slices of him in the slants of moonlight which flowed through the opening; his long fingers working on the zip, the fall of his hair across his face. He crawled in beside me and suddenly his pale eyes were only inches from mine, twin moons in the shadow.

There wasn't enough room for us both to sit, so I lay back down and, carefully, he joined me. We lay facing each other, no part of us touching, the heat from our bodies slowly warming the small confines of the tent. In this cramped, dark womb I felt I could hear the thrum-thrum-thrum of his heart, loud as a war drum in my head. He was breathing hard and I felt it hot on my cheek. 

His mouth was twitching, turning down at the corners, and his eyes moved restlessly over my face. As soon as he had come in my anger at him had flowed away. He looked miserable, shoulders hunched, curled in on himself. 

'So you wanted to talk?' I murmured. 

'I wanted,' he began, hesitating. 'I wanted to apologise. I never should have said those things.'

'Neither should I. I said some cruel things, and it was wrong of me. I'm sorry - '

'No, no!' Harold interrupted me and I jumped a little. Even when apologising, his intensity was a little scary. 'No, you were right.'

'I… was?'

'Yes. I was being selfish. I guess I got so wrapped up in - in my own problems that I didn't see what you were going through. And I'm sorry for that. And I'm sorry for - for what I called you. Truly.'

'Right. Well. I appreciate that, Harold. Thank you. And - And I really am sorry about what I said. You're not an asshole.'

'Not all the time.' He snorted, not quite a laugh but close. I smiled in the shadows.

Silence. The sounds of our breathing. 

'What did you think,' I tried to pick my words carefully, 'about the other stuff I said? About… How I think you could make yourself happy?'

More silence. Unhappy silence, this time. Eventually he spoke again but with difficulty, like hatred had its cold hand on his throat.

'I don't know.'

'Why not?'

'Because… Because it's probably easier for you to say that stuff. People have cared about you. No one's ever cared about me.' 

Words came from him faster then, a river bursting its banks. Trembling mouth, chattering teeth.

'That's the fucking truth of it. I thought maybe… maybe she cared, or if she didn't already then I could _make_ her care. But no matter what I did, I was just nothing to her. I couldn't even protect her. She almost got… got raped, did she tell you that? Raped and maybe murdered by some fucking - fucking monster, and all I could do was lay there and watch. I failed at protecting her, just like I failed at - at - at -'

I realised that he'd begun to cry. Within moments they were wet, thick sobs. He was obviously trying to hold them back but the harder he tried, the worse they got. Frantic, humiliated, he turned away from me and drew his knees up to his stomach, rubbing at his face furiously with his sleeve. 

I lay there for a moment, looking at his shaking back, not sure what to do. I'd never been good with people, really, and Harold was one of the most difficult people to read. I hesitated. Thought. Then I shuffled towards him and laid a hand on his shoulder, ran it down over his side, reaching for his hand. 

He froze up as I took hold of him. His hands - like his arms, like all of him - were thin, wiry. I felt him seize up and I paused, wondering if I had badly misjudged. Then he breathed out, long and longing, and relaxed his hand in mine, linking our fingers together.

I scooted closer until my chest was flush against his back and my face was in his hair. My breath must have been warm and ticklish against the exposed skin of his neck, because I felt him shudder slightly as I breathed. His hand closed tighter on mine and his other hand came up, slowly, to rest on the arm I had flung over him. It lay there, stroking, petting me like I was some exotic animal he was afraid he'd scare off at any moment.

'Frannie told me about what happened with that guy,' I started softly, whispering into his hair. He shivered again, made a small sound in his throat. 'She told me how he hurt you. How he'd been hurting Dayna. I can't imagine how hard that must have been, Harold.'

He snorted. Replied in a voice that was thick, disgusted.

'I'm sure she did. Did she tell you how powerless I was to help her? Did she tell you that he was going to - to - right in front of me, and I couldn't do shit to save her because I'm a - a fucking coward?' 

'No, Harold. She told me how scared she was that he was going to kill you.'

'She - she did?'

'Yes. She cares about you, Harold - she does!' He had begun to interrupt me but I kept going, squeezing his hand. 

'She does. Just not in the way you want her to. But it's not true to say that no one cares about you. I don't know what your life was like before Captain Trips. I don't know what kind of person you were. All that matters is here and now. And here and now…' 

I trailed off, unsure whether to finish. Checking to see if what I had been about to say was true. Finding that it was. 

'Here and now, I care about you.'

Harold was silent for some time, although his grip on my hand never loosened. Then, he spoke, quietly, as if his voice came from a long way away.

'It's just… All I've ever known. I've loved her since I was a kid. When she said she'd never feel that way for me, it just... It was like everything I ever saw in front of me - like, my destiny - just got wiped off the face of the Earth.'

'Did you spend a lot of time together, before everything happened?'

Harold's voice became even more quiet, more hesitant.

'No. No, I didn't - uh - see her much. Sometimes she'd come around to see Amy. And sometimes I'd … see her in the garden, when I was walking home from school.'

'But you didn't talk much? Or hang out, or anything?'

'No, not - not really.'

'So is it possible - I'm just sort of, thinking out loud here - that what you feel for her is more like … wanting an idea of her, rather than Frannie herself?'

Harold jerked.

'No, that's - that's not true at all. I love her. I _love_ her.'

'Okay, okay. Sorry. I was just wondering.'

Silence. His hand moving, almost absentmindedly, on my arm.

'Why would you say that, anyway?'

'Just because… Well... I don't know. Just that if you've loved someone so long, but from far away, sometimes it's possible to confuse the person you want with the person you want them to be, I think. At least, from my experience. And sometimes I think you can want to... have a person, to keep them for yourself, in a way that's not about love, but more about… possession. It's about you, not about them. Does that make sense?' 

'No,' he answered shortly, but he left a long gap in the conversation afterwards, which I did not take mercy upon him to fill. Then:

'Did you mean what you said?'

'Which bit?'

He shifted in the dark. I smelled his hair, the sheen of sweat and grime on his skin. I moved closer still to him and rested my chin on his shoulder. He sighed, perhaps without meaning to.

'About - about caring about me?' His voice had become so small it was barely there.

'Yeah. Definitely.' I said, knowing it was true, almost knowing it for the first time as I spoke the words.

We lay like that for a little while, not saying any more, before Harold grunted and cleared his throat.

'Look at us,' Harold said, and he seemed to have got himself under control. 'We were supposed to be comparing dreams and we've… really not done that.'

'Yeah,' I laughed a little and he joined in, the way you do when something isn't particularly funny. 

'We should try to sleep now, I guess.' I continued, grudgingly. With Harold beside me I suddenly felt I didn't want him to leave. 'It's probably almost dawn. The others will be up in a bit and - and you'll be driving the cycle, so I want you to be rested. I don't want to see you go crashing into a tree, or something.' 

I tried to make him smile but couldn't see if it had worked. His back was to me, impassive, stone. I felt him nod and began to rise. I hesitated, an idea alive in my mind, then compulsively took the plunge.

'Harold? Would you… Would you stay with me, just until I fall asleep? I just… I hate trying to sleep. I get so scared. Of the dreams. And I thought maybe, if you were there…'

'Of course,' he answered quickly, turning to look me in the face. His eyes were red and rubbed raw with tears, but there was an intense spark in them which excited and frightened me in equal measure. His mouth twitched and it was a smile, I was sure, there and gone like a quick fish beneath the surface of a river. 

'Of course, I'll stay.'

'Thank you,' I said, as he settled back down. We lay facing each other once more, our hands still clasped together. 'Feel free to - you know - to leave, when I'm asleep. If you want to. Or stay. It's up to you.'

Sleep took me swiftly, but before it did, my eyes fluttered open once, twice, three times. I saw that Harold was watching me, gaze bright in the darkness, not trying to sleep himself. When I woke up in the morning - woken by Kojak's happy barks and Glen's calls of _woah boy, down, down!_ \- I saw that Harold was gone. But the ground where he had lain beside me was still warm. 


	8. Interlude: Three Days On The Road

'The sun goes down, another dreamless night

You're right by my side

You wake me up, you say it's time to ride

In the dead of night

Strange canyon roads, strange look in your eyes

You shut them as we fly, as we fly.'

\- Orville Peck - _Dead of Night_

**4th October 2020**

It would be two more weeks of travelling before we finally reached Boulder. We rode on I-70 until the traffic jams forced us to get onto the secondary roads. Metal graveyards, is what those jams really were, cars full of slumped bodies, slowly stewing in the sun. I paid them no mind. It was getting easier to ignore all of that death, and on one level that was a relief. On another it terrified me.

The land had begun to remind me of my land as we travelled, of my home; the close, claustrophobic treelines had given way to wide green plains, hills squat on the horizon like bullfrogs, the comforting familiarity of twinkling river water. The trees were turning too, from vibrant greens to reds and golds, as if we were slipping into the sepia tones of the past as autumn redoubled its stranglehold on the world. 

I marvelled at the beauty of this land. I don't know if it was because of the growing comfort I felt travelling with Harold, hanging onto him as we sped through the painting-perfect countryside, or because I had started - very slowly - to make peace with being there. I thought less about my home in those weeks on the road than I did even in the time that came after. 

The air might have been growing chiller in general as we moved further West, but the air between Harold and I was warmer than it had ever been. When I held him as we rode, leaning into the turns now as if I had been doing it for years, he seemed to burn with a feverish heat. 

We talked about anything and everything in those days of travel. Everything, that is, apart from the topic which was constantly on my mind, laying low beneath the surface, like an alligator waiting to drag down an unfortunate child playing on the riverbank. Neither of us had brought up that night, the things we'd said to each other, the confessions we'd exchanged, even in the moments when we were alone. Those moments belonged to another world, another Harold and Christine. That didn't mean that I didn't think of them, though, and I was sure that he thought of them too.

Whilst we rode I learned that he liked the films of David Lynch, that he'd never read any Dickens - although he often pretended that he had - and that he was a writer, had been since he was a small child. I told him that I played the piano and sang, very badly and only for myself, and that when I was a little girl I thought I'd come from the sea, like a kelpie, and would go back there, one day. 

It surprised me, the ease with which we suddenly found we could speak to each other. The surly, sullen boy I'd met on the road was still there - he was there in his interactions with the others, in the suspicious flit of his eyes around the group as we sat by the fire in the evening, and in the way he'd jump and grab for his gun if he didn't hear your approach. But he was also softer with me, somehow, his voice less abrasive and his comments less cutting. He'd even begun to flash me quick smiles, rapidly spun away with an errant twitch of his thin mouth. 

I could tell that the others had noticed the change in the atmosphere between us and that they seemed to greet it with a certain rueful amusement. Several times I caught Stu hastily stifling a grin at the sight of Harold and I stood together talking, and as he turned away I felt he was congratulating himself on thrusting us together. Only Frannie seemed troubled. She didn't smile along, like Stu did, but she also didn't pass comment on our growing closeness. Not at first, anyway.

On my sixth day of travelling with the group we passed through another little town, one of the endless nondescript ones we had come across on our journey. It was dead, as all other towns we had passed through had been dead. Although, for the first time, we all felt that there were people nearby watching us, perhaps afraid to come out of hiding and make themselves known.

Whilst Stu, Glen and Harold set about refueling the bikes, Dayna, Frannie and I went to source supplies. We found a small grocery store which hadn't been completely emptied as the plague had taken hold, although it was turned upside down and most of the shelves were empty. I passed the sweets and candy and paused, rifling through the dregs that remained to find a few chocolate Payday bars, right at the back. I knew that Harold liked them and I wanted to bring some back for him. As Frannie and I stuffed as many long-life food items into our packs as we could, Dayna made her way towards a familiar section of the store. 

'This is something I never thought I'd have to think about in the apocalypse,' she grumbled, rummaging through a small pile of discarded boxes. 'Finding the fucking Kotex.'

I snorted. 

'I'm glad I don't have to worry about that.' 

Dayna glanced back at me questioningly. 

'I have an IUD. I haven't worried about _that_ for a while. Although, I was due to have it taken out later this year.' I frowned, not having thought about it before that moment. 'Where the Hell am I going to find a doctor to remove it? I'll be pretty lucky to run into a gynecologist on the road... '

Dayna shrugged. 

'You don't need a gyno to take one of those out, just a regular - Frannie? What's wrong?'

A small, muffled squeak had come from the corner where Frannie was bent over the cans and preserves. I looked over at her, alarmed. She stood and I saw her eyes were red.

'What's wrong? Frannie?'

She wavered, seeming to be on the edge of something. Then she distractedly rubbed her nose with the sleeve of her jacket and cast her eyes around the room, as if looking for a place to start.

'Nothing. Nothing, it's just… God. When you said that about finding a doctor, it made me think…' 

Her shoulders began to shake and she pressed her mouth together in a tight line, trying to hold back the sobs.

Dayna and I exchanged a concerned look.

'Fran, honey, what's up?' Dayna went over to her and put an arm around her. Frannie looked up at us both and tears glistened in her eyes but did not fall.

'I'm just so scared about - about all that stuff. About not finding a doctor. Because…' A small hiccuping sob. 'Because I'm pregnant.'

'Oh…' I breathed. Suddenly her comment to me about keeping secrets made a little more sense.

'Is it - you know - Stu's?' Dayna asked, a little confused.

'No, no. It was my boyfriend Jess. We were together… before.'

That word again. _Before._ It used to be so innocuous but now it was like the granite slab of a tombstone thudding into place. 

'Oh, Frannie,' I said and went over to put a hand on her back. 'Frannie. I'm so glad you told us. Who else knows?'

'Just Stu. And Glen saw it in a dream, as crazy as that sounds. Please can you promise you won't say a word to Harold?' She fixed me with an agonised look and I frowned, a little taken aback.

'Sure... If that's what you want.'

I didn't really understand why Harold shouldn't know. In fact, I felt it might help him to get a few things straight. But with a nod of my head Frannie sniffed, seeming mollified.

'It'll be okay, Fran.' Dayna said, and she spoke with such calm certainty that I found even I believed her for a moment. Just for a moment.

 _Pregnant_ , I thought. _Pregnant, in the middle of all this._ I thought of finding myself pregnant in this new world, with no certainty that we would ever find anyone with any knowledge of delivering babies - with the Dark Man on the edge of all our conversations, not spoken of but never unseen or unseeing. And I was absolutely terrified.

It began to rain as we walked back through the empty streets to where the men stood with the bikes, our steps hurried. Out of the corner of my vision I saw something which made me stop and stare in excitement. It was a pawnbrokers of some kind, which seemed to specialise in nothing and stock everything. The lettering on the glass above the door read: _Secondhand Rose, Secondhand Clothes_. In the window I could see a collection of baseball cards, a rocking horse, several lamps, even a beautiful silver bicycle. 

But that wasn't what had caught my attention. I leaned in close, ignoring Dayna's call for me to hurry up. It was a Polaroid camera, in a box which proclaimed it to also contain a roll of 24 shots of film. This was no antique - a cheap, plastic thing, most certainly mass-produced - but to me, it was like finding treasure. I took it, no longer feeling the illicit thrill that breaking-and-entering had filled me with in Gamble, and turned to run after the others.

* * *

**8th October 2020**

The truck had developed a puncture in one of the rear tires. This wouldn't have been a problem 20 miles back, when we had made another stop in yet another small, dead town, but by the time the truck had developed the tell-tale lurch and slide we were nowhere near a garage. Stu and Frannie had volunteered to ride back to get a new tire. I had a strong suspicion that they'd stepped up mostly to that they could be alone together for a time. _Good for them_ , I thought. Although I didn't miss the sullen look that Harold had thrown them as their bikes disappeared into the distance.

In the meantime Glen, Dayna, Harold and I could only sit by the side of the road and wait for them to get back. It was a beautiful day; summer was slipping inexorably into autumn but it had made one last grab at the world and the day was hot, at least to me, raised in the drizzle and wet coastal winds of Cornwall.

There was barely a gust of breeze and when it came it was fresh, pure, so entirely different from the pollutant-rich air we had been happy enough to breathe in our old lives. Glen had settled down with Kojak, smoking and watching birds move high in the trees. Dayna had announced she was going to take a nap in the back of the truck - she hadn't been getting much sleep, and she wasn't alone. Harold was sitting a distance away, writing, and didn't look up when I stood and stretched my back. Somewhere in the distance a river was churning, just on the edge of hearing. 

I dug in my pack for the camera and stepped carefully off the road, picking my way through the rising columns of the trees. The urge to hunt for subjects to photograph was natural, familiar, as it would have been in my old life. This new world was opening before me and the size and scope of it brought me almost to tears. I had realised that although I was a stranger here, in a way even the inhabitants of this country were strangers to it now.

I followed the sounds of the river, the light casting red and gold on my arms and on the way ahead. The land began to list downwards and became rockier beneath my feet. The soil was a warm brown, as unlike the black serpentine cliffs of my home as possible, but as I trekked downwards through the woods I was reminded of the conversation I had with Glen and Stu earlier that day, about whether there was truly any meaning in the idea that we were from different nations anyway. 

'Really, when you think about it,' Glen had sucked on his vape pen and begun the way that many of his most interesting points began. 'When you really get down to it, there is no America now. All the old systems which, when built up together, formed the cohesive whole which was the _United States_ are now gone. It never really existed. It was just an idea, a thought ticking away in a synapse which has now been laid bare by the surgeon's scalpel. You can see it still pulsing away in there, in the exposed cranial cavity - death spasms, possibly - but it's no longer real. What's to say that you're from England either, Chrissy?'

Stu butted in.

'Well, she was born someplace else, Glen, that's real.'

'Ah, but Stuart! That's just a matter of land. Space. The physical world. That's my very point. The land exists, yes, and that's what always existed. Anything else is merely… window dressing.'

I came to the riverbank abruptly and the sight of it stopped me still as a statue. As rivers seemed to go in this wild, magnificent country it was small, criss-crossed by gold-grey rocks which formed natural jetties out across the shallow water. The water itself was a deep green-brown and it looked warm, inviting, and all around the trees rose and the hills rose, colossuses the likes of which I had never experienced. The trees here were like the legs of giants to me, and I marvelled at them.

I moved down to the water's edge, my feet skidding and sliding slightly on the slimy rock. Little currents bubbled under the surface and although the water was not deep I could see the occasional glint of a fish swirling in its murk. I sat down carefully on the wet stone, not caring for the state of my jeans. The sun beat down on my face and I turned up towards it, like a plant twisting towards the light. There were no sounds apart from the gurgle of the river. Even the birds seemed to have fallen silent. My camera lay beside me, almost forgotten. The world turned.

'Hey, Chrissy?'

I jerked so suddenly at the sound, within striking distance, that I almost knocked the camera into the river with a flailing hand.

'What the fuck?'

I peered up into Harold's face, the sun a corona of fire around it. His easy smile quickly clouded over, a sudden squall across a sunny bay. The shutters came down a little behind his eyes.

'I'm sorry,' he swallowed, voice bare. 'I just noticed you'd been gone a long time and I was worried you'd maybe… got hurt, or something. So I came to find you.'

By way of half-hearted elaboration he waved his hand around, vaguely, at our surroundings. 

'No, I'm sorry Harold. You just - you scared me a little. Crept up on me.'

I let out a shaky laugh and he seemed to brighten. He came forwards and sat beside me, unbidden but not unwelcome. Drew in a long, appreciative breath, looking around us at the expanse of the river.

'It's beautiful here, isn't it?' I sighed. 

'Yeah, I guess it is.'

I watched him consider the river, with a look of peace on his usually pinched face. 

'I was just thinking - when you came along - that I'd like to take a swim.'

Harold immediately frowned.

'I don't know if that's such a good idea. You never know if there are strong currents in rivers like these.'

We both looked out at the glassy, shallow water. 

'It looks pretty mellow to me, and I'm a strong swimmer.'

He still didn't look convinced. I shrugged and began to yank off my boots. I thought I'd regret this when it came to pulling my jeans back on over soaking wet legs, but I couldn't bring myself to care in the moment. Then I paused. Harold goggled in a way that would have been comical in a less serious face. 

'Suit yourself. You don't have to come in too. But if you're not joining me, could you look away? I feel a bit weird taking these off if you aren't going to look ridiculous too.'

Harold's jaw worked. 

'I guess I might - might take a swim - '

'Cool. Although I'd still prefer it if you turned around for now. Until I'm in the water.'

He did so, angling his whole body away, and I saw his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat frantically. I struggled out of my jeans, placing them in a pile next to the camera. I reached out a tentative foot and dipped it in the water. It was icy, but I had grown up swimming in the surf of Poldhu Cove in winter, and I feared no chill water. I hopped down off the rock, keeping my T-shirt pulled down low for modesty. 

It was cold but the air was warm and the two worked together deliciously. I laughed with pleasure at being in the water again, slipping in up to my shoulders. I heard a rustling behind me and didn't look around until I heard Harold say:

'Holy shit, it's cold.'

He'd stripped off his jeans, shirt and jacket but had sunk up to his neck in the water. He was so tall that he almost had to kneel to do so, but he seemed to want to submerge himself well beyond my view. 

'Didn't you have cold water in Ogunquit?'

'Yeah, but,' he shrugged, or at least seemed to, below the surface. 'I never really went swimming.'

'Didn't you like it?'

'I - I don't know. I guess I did. I went swimming when I was a kid, with Amy sometimes. But... there'd always be kids from my school there. You know.'

I thought for a moment. Moved over to him through the water, gathering ripples around my thighs like the train of a great muddy dress.

'Were you given a hard time by the other kids?' I asked, trying to speak casually. 'You know - before?'

He shrugged again but his jaw clenched and he looked away from me, at something I couldn't see.

'It wasn't too bad. It seems pretty petty to complain about it now, what with them being dead and all.' He was attempting to keep his voice light but it wavered, hollowed out. I looked down at the weeds swirling around my feet.

'I don't think that makes a difference, necessarily. Someone once said to me that the problem with running away from yourself is that you follow yourself around, wherever you go. I think that's true. And I think - I think it's normal to still feel angry and upset about the things that have happened to you.'

He blinked back at me, the water reflecting on his face. Made a little grunt sound, of agreement or dismay, I wasn't sure. Then he cleared his throat.

'So, uh. You should probably swim if you're gonna do it, before your feet freeze.'

We swam for an hour or more, calling out to each other across the water. I turned round and round in its pull, so happy to be swimming again at last. When the chill had settled into our skin we climbed back out onto the rock pier. The clothes we had kept on in the water clung to us like a second skin, one to be peeled off and discarded like a snake's, and Harold hastily pulled his shirt back on before settling back beside me. I turned away as he did so but caught a glimpse of his body, pale and vulnerable. I had a sudden urge to reach out and place my palm against his bony chest, to run my hand up to cup his face; feeling the ripple of his ribcage, the sharp jut and deep wells of his collarbones. A heat rose in my cheeks and I looked away, quickly.

We sat side-by-side, washed clean in the waters of the Styx. I looked at Harold and saw a restful smile on his face; he was watching the ripples and they were reflecting back onto him, moving quickly over his features, dark to light. I looked up at the sky and closed my eyes. Somewhere close by a crow called, three times.

When I opened my eyes again he was looking at me, his eyes moving fitfully over my body. I realised that my wet T-shirt was as translucent as a single sheet of tissue paper and I instinctively moved to cover myself with my arms, crossing them. A look of shame and hurt crossed his face and he turned away, fiddling with getting his jeans back on or pretending to, so he could keep his back to me.

I felt guilty. He hadn't meant to make me uncomfortable, I was sure. Only there was something discomforting in the way he would stare greedily like that, with furtive eyes, then look away quickly when spotted - his shoulders rising up to hunch over his chest, as if to protect himself from blows. I was reminded of a kid in a sweet shop, grabbing everything he could off the shelves and then running out again in a frantic, mad dash. What had his life been like before, to make him take affection like a thief?

I pulled on my clothes with difficulty, wincing at the sensation of the material against my damp skin.

'Hey,' I said, keeping my voice bright. 'I don't suppose you have a hairdryer in your back pocket?'

He looked at me a moment, not getting it, then he laughed, and it was the first real laugh I'd ever heard from him.

I had a sudden urge to hug him. Without thinking - possibly because if I stopped long enough to think I'd change my mind - I did it, throwing my arms around his neck and gently holding him close. He went stiff, and although he didn't push me away, he didn't close his arms around me either. He just stood, swaying slightly, his face shoved into my hair. 

I was about to let him go, not wanting to push him, when he very slowly brought his hands up to my back and held me - carefully, lightly, but definitely there. I felt his heart beating against my chest, fast and skittish as a bird's. It felt so good to be holding someone again. It had been so long, since way before Captain Trips. The superflu could be blamed for a great many things but my lack of a love-life was not one of them.

After many moments I pulled away from him and saw that his eyes were huge, shifting around, uncertain. I stood back from him and studied his face. 

'You know I said I knew how you felt, about Frannie?'

Harold nodded, slowly. I moved to sit back down on the rock, shifting around to get comfortable. He followed, carefully, as if afraid to accidentally brush against me.

'I didn't tell you how I know. But I think I want to, if you're okay with that?'

Another shaky nod. I looked up at the sky where, high above, a bird was careening gently on the scant breeze. I thought it might be a hawk.

'A couple of years ago - when I was maybe a year or so younger than you? - I was completely head over heels about someone. I remember feeling like - like nothing was more important in my life than this person. Like I'd die if I didn't have them, like I was dying anyway, every single day.'

'What happened?'

'She wasn't ready for her parents to know she was gay. She liked me back but she… Her situation was complicated. It hurt. Like, it really hurt. But...' I shrugged. 'That's life. I had to get over it. It wasn't her fault, wasn't mine either. That's just love for you. It's a bastard.'

'She? You mean… you like women?' Harold asked me, face tense.

'And men too. I'm bi.'

He breathed out a little huffing breath. Was quiet for a moment. I lay back on the wet stone, feeling the sun hot on my face.

'I suppose she's probably dead now, like everyone else.' I continued, surprised at how easy it was to say these words to Harold. Talking about this relationship had never come easily to me, even with Emma. 'I didn't see her again after we left school. I don't know where she ended up - she did some kind of digital cleanse when she got to university, deleting all her social media, you know? And we weren't talking anyway. So I have no idea what happened to her.'

'Maybe she was immune, like us.' 

I looked over at him, squinting against the bright sky. 

'Yeah, maybe,' I said, not believing that at all.

We sat in silence again, both travelling into the past inside our heads. 

'When I was a kid,' Harold said, slowly, 'I read about this guy. He broke out of jail by tunneling through the wall of his cell with a tiny - tiny little hammer, the kind you use to cut rocks.'

'Oh, I think I heard about that. In the 60s? I saw it on one of those TV shows. You know, unsolved mysteries and stuff.'

'Yeah. It happened in Maine, did you know that? Not too far from where I grew up.'

'Shit, that's cool. Did they ever catch him?'

'Nope. Never. And I remember reading about him and thinking… if he could do that…' Harold's eyes had taken on a glazed look and his face lifted in excitement, his white teeth flashing behind his curling lip. 'If he could spend twenty years just - just patiently working away, fighting every day, keeping his secret... then I could too.'

I blinked at him, confused at where he was going with this.

'What do you mean?'

'I mean… I could get through anything. I could be patient. I could wait for my time.'

A strange edge had entered his voice. I laughed, unsure.

'And when do you think that'll be?'

He looked at me, earnestly.

'All our times have come. Now. Don't you think?'

I frowned, looked away over the water. 

'I… suppose so, yeah. But… that guy was a murderer, wasn't he? Not exactly the best role model.'

Harold didn't answer. He just shrugged, although some of the frenzied tension seemed to leave his shoulders. A cool breeze wafted over us, caught our hair and our wet clothes. The sun was starting to dip, starting to lose some of its bright tones. Blood red rushed in to fill the gaps. 

I sighed, stood up, and reached for my camera.

'I came out here to take a few shots. I think I'd better get on with it, before the others send out a search party,' I said. 

Harold nodded, not really listening. I looked at him, at the ailing sun playing on his face. I had a sudden urge.

'Hey, can I take your picture?'

'What?' He looked over quickly and wavered, seeming mistrustful.

'It's just - I just thought that you looked really nice there, like that - but don't worry, if you don't want me to. I understand.'

'No, it's - it's ok. I guess. Um. Yeah.'

I knelt down to steady myself as best I could, ignoring the cold stone against my wet jeans. Harold sat awkwardly, straightening himself up and peering to the side a little, to see what I was doing. 

'Just relax,' I said, soothingly. 'You were good how you were before.'

I looked through the viewfinder, caught his profile with the treeline rising behind and the sun casting his features in striking relief. The shutter clicked. When the camera was finished printing I took out the photo and held it safe to my chest.

'Any good?' Harold asked, a little nervously. I moved to sit beside him again.

'Just a minute, it needs to develop. I've never used one of these things before, but I think digital photography is out for a while.'

'Do you like photography?'

'I did, I guess. Before. My uncle taught me. He had a dark room and everything - I was never anywhere near that serious about it. Ah! See?'

I held out the photo to him and he took it, holding it gently by the edges, almost reverently. It had come out well. The angular line of his jaw formed a deep shadow, out of which jutted his pale face, his slightly furrowed brow, his hair slicked back with river water. He looked, if not happy, then at rest.

'Do you like it?' I asked, grinning. He smiled in response, small and surprised, still looking down at the photo with an almost tender look in his eyes.

'It's ok, I guess,' he replied, and passed it back to me. Then he paused.

'Can I take one of you?' He blurted it out in a rush, so the words slurred together a little.

'Yeah, sure,' I said, and self-consciously pushed my hair behind my ears. 'Do you know how to use it?'

He snorted.

'It's not exactly complex technology.'

I rolled my eyes. He raised the camera and I turned my face to the sun. The camera whirred.

'I would say I hope you got my good side but I'm not sure I have one.'

The photo wasn't bad. I saw myself for the first time in weeks; I was too thin, my cheeks sunken, from stress and hard days travelling and a diet of canned food. My hair looked dirty, lank. But, I thought, I looked happy. Genuinely happy. That seemed so alien an idea to me, so wrong, that I thrust the photograph out to Harold, not wanting to look at it anymore.

'Here, take a look at your handwork. Maybe you'll have an exhibition one day.'

'Maybe. If the writing thing doesn't work out.'

'Was that an actual joke, Harold?' I asked him playfully. He only grunted and looked away, but I could see the ghost of his smile. 

'The sun's starting to go down. Stu and Fran might be back by now. We should probably go.'

I nodded, sighed, and got my things together. Slowly we made our way back through the trees and up to the road, where Frannie and Stu were indeed waiting for us. I pretended not to notice that, when he thought I wasn't looking, Harold had slipped the photo of me into his jacket pocket. 

* * *

**11th October 2020**

After a long day of travel, when we had stopped to make camp for the night, Frannie came to me with a mission. She hunkered down beside me and fixed me with a slow look.

'Can I ask you a question?' 

I nodded, idly stroking Kojak's head as he settled down onto my feet, waiting to be fed.

'Do you honestly… like spending time with Harold? Or are you just trying to make it not awkward?'

She looked almost apologetic as she said it, but she kept my gaze steadily as I stared back at her. I looked down at Kojak and scratched his ears, so I didn't have to watch the expression on her face as I thought about my answer.

Harold was difficult to like, in the way that I used to like my friends, back in the old world. He was sardonic, sarcastic, bitter, exasperating. Sometimes he even seemed to exasperate himself. And every time I thought I'd got a handle on his personality he pivoted to surprise me. 

But yes. I liked him. He was a friend to me, one of the first I'd made in this strange new world, but there was more to it too. There was an attraction there, that much I couldn't deny, especially after our afternoon by the river. And that wasn't all. I think part of me saw something in him which was myself, looking back at me. The dark parts of me, the parts which Flagg saw too.

At university once I'd heard another student use a term which I didn't recognise. He'd been walking past me in the library, so briskly that I'd only caught a sliver of his conversation, but I'd always remembered what he'd said.

 _' - the thing about self-consciousness, isn't it? It's recognition of the_ self _through the_ other - _'_

I remembered that the student he was talking to had responded that he was full of shit, but that didn't matter to me. What he had meant exactly didn't matter to me either. It was the phrase I had remembered - recognition of the self, through the Other. It seemed simply true, in a way I couldn't fully explain, and it frightened me a little. That phrase came back to me as I sat with Frannie, thinking about Harold Lauder.

'... Christine?' Frannie asked.

'Sorry, I was just… thinking. Yeah, sure, I like Harold. He's interesting. Why are you asking me this?'

'Interesting?' Fran repeated, doubtfully, ignoring my question. Snorted, eyebrows up. 'That's one word for what Harold is.' 

I bridled a little. I didn't like where the conversation seemed to be heading.

'Yeah, he's interesting. We talk. About movies and books and - and stuff. Really, Frannie, when he's in the right mood he's… pretty cool.'

She once again gave me a long, considered look, mouth slightly open, as if fixing to bite down on a distasteful idea. 

'You do see how he's started to… look at you, right?'

'I mean, there aren't many other people to look at here, Fran.'

'You know what I mean.' Her voice was a little hard. I flushed.

'Yeah, I guess.' 

I looked around for any distraction. I felt that the real reason Harold and I had business with each other wasn't something I could ever give voice to in front of Frannie. The Dark Man was in every unspoken word between us, and that was something she could never know.

'I'm just saying… be careful.'

'Careful why?'

'Careful because… Only a few weeks ago he was saying he'd loved me since we met - he was a kid, Chrissy, it was years ago - and that the plague happened to bring us together. Now he's always staring at you. Being... weird. And at night, he gets as close to you as he can - '

This was true. The night after our midnight walk, when we were all bedding down for the night, Harold had - with studied casualness - begun to set up his tent right beside mine. I had seen Glen raising his eyebrows at that a little but I just smiled bracingly at them both, as if nothing had changed. 

That night I had lain listening to the quiet, secret sounds of the forest at night, the muffled snorts and rustlings and snores of the others, and wondered if Harold was also awake, laying on his back, listening. I decided he probably was.

'That's fine, Frannie. Really, isn't it a good thing he's opening up a little? I don't know why you're being so negative about him.'

'If that's what's really happening, then yeah, it is a good thing,' she frowned, sucked her teeth, looked down at her lap then back up at me.

'Just remember what I've said? Don't get so far in that you can't get out. Stu thinks it's great that Harold's found someone else to - you know, to be friends with - but I'm just worried. Okay?'

I felt a flush of irritation at her and stamped on the small voice in my head, telling me she was perhaps right.

'Fran, you're only like, a month older than me. Really not old enough to be lecturing me. You don't know what I want or what he wants, so maybe you should just butt out.'

I stood and stalked off, ignoring the hurt expression on her face. I knew I was being childish, petulant, and I leaned into it. That night I moved my tent even closer to Harold's, pretending not to notice the fleeting look of surprised happiness which crossed his face. 

I did apologise later, for storming off if not for what I'd said, and Frannie had accepted my apology and offered one of her own in return. But afterwards there was a coolness between us that I didn't think we'd easily shake. Like she'd seen, with sudden clarity, that my loyalties didn't lie where she'd thought they had.

And in the nights that followed, when the dreams came, I would crawl into Harold's tent to sleep beside him once again. Neither of us ever spoke. We just lay in the darkness, holding hands, not daring to so much as whisper, and it felt like we were laying on the edge of something. A deep void, deep as the eyes of the Dark Man, threatening to drag us both down together.


	9. Out On Arapahoe

On the afternoon of October 14th Harold and I were walking down Arapahoe Avenue, peering up at the houses on either side of the street. We'd been told we could pick any house that wasn't already occupied, either by a new resident - or by a late one. The houses free of corpses were identified with a yellow cross sprayed on the door. A cheery, curly-haired guy who introduced himself as Teddy Weizak had given us a brief run-through of how things worked in the 'Zone', as they called it, soon after our arrival. 

He wasn't the first person we met in the Zone - that had been a serious woman named Ray Brentner - but he was certainly the most friendly. He'd explained that a crew was being put together to remove the dead who remained in their homes and Harold had immediately offered to take part, surprising the rest of us.

'What?' He quirked his eyebrows at my questioning look, seeming irritated. 'I just want to, you know. Do my bit. Is that so hard to believe?'

Frannie, Stu, Glen and Dayna had all headed towards the area around the college to search out likely properties, which was the part of town which was most heavily settled. Stu had paused and asked if Harold and I were coming with them but, our journey to reach Boulder at an end, I think we all sensed that we had come to a parting of ways. That Harold and I were on a different path, perhaps even more so than they knew.

'No, that's okay,' I said, answering for both of us. 'I think I want to check out this side of town - the side nearest the Amphitheatre.' I turned to Harold, upon whose forehead a soft V of stress had appeared. 

'Want to come with, Harold?'

He nodded and some of the tension seemed to leave his body.

'Yeah, I - uh - yeah. Sounds good.'

Stu had nodded and Frannie had drawn me into a hug, although her heart didn't seem to be in it. As we exchanged an awkward goodbye her eyes lingered on mine for a moment, searchingly. I looked away first. Then they were waving to us and we were all making our way in opposite directions. 

There were other people doing the same thing as us, moving furniture in and out of the large white and grey houses, struggling up steps with arms full of bags and boxes. The houses all seemed huge to me. Harold and I walked in silence but it was companionable silence, not strained. 

I craned up at the homes that we passed, at the cars still sitting in the drives, and thought about the families who were never again going to come home to these places at the end of the day. We walked past a mattress on the curb and then a hutch of some kind, for a rabbit or guinea pig. The leftovers of the old world, left out for refuse collectors who would never come. 

'I think I'll check out that one,' Harold said, indicating a grey house on the opposite side of the street.

'Sure, I'll come with you,' I nodded and we crossed. There were two sets of steps up to the house, with a little front garden - now full of leaves - and pretty white columns hemming in a wide porch. 

Harold pushed the door open with his foot and hung back a little, out of grim habit. I was reminded of doing the same, at the motel in Gamble a million years ago. This time no rushing stink of decay hit us. The house was dark inside, the front door leading straight into an open-plan living room. I was pleased to see there was a real fireplace, and amused to see a huge cabinet full of CDs taking up most of a wall. Without electricity they were just fancy coasters, but having them around made the house feel a little more like a home. Harold went through to the kitchen whilst I curiously climbed the stairs.

Upstairs there was an enclosed balcony which was accessed through sliding doors off of both the master bedroom, which ran along the right side of the house, and the second bedroom, which ran along the left. A bathroom was at the back, next to a small room which was painted in bright colours and had what looked like a yet-to-be constructed crib in one corner. I shut that door hurriedly.

I also moved swiftly through the master bedroom, not allowing my eyes to linger too long on the wedding photos which stood on the dresser or the hairbrush, still stuck with strands of glossy black hair. The little balcony looked out onto the road and, in the fresh afternoon sun, I watched a man down the street struggle with a bed frame. I didn't hear Harold approach until he spoke close to my ear.

'I like this place. There's a big desk in the basement, I can set my typewriter up down there. It's… It's good.'

'So you'll stay here?' I asked, leaning back against the railing. He sniffed deeply, looked around, nodded. 

'Yes, I think so.' He fixed me with one of his quick, glancing-blow looks. 'How about you?'

I sighed, peered over at the surrounding houses. The man struggling with the bedframe had got it up the steps now, and as I watched him he caught my eye and waved. I grinned and waved back.

'I guess I'll have a look at some of these houses. Nearby. It'll be strange at first, I think. I've never lived alone. Emma and I were flatmates at university and I just moved back to live with my parents this… this summer, right before I came on this trip. So this will be my first house.' I sighed. 'I never thought I'd ever be able to afford a place like this. So there's some silver lining, I guess.' I added, sarcastically.

Harold laughed, surprising me. He hardly ever actually laughed, in an honest, joyful way. I reflected that a lot of the things about this new world which I found shocking, difficult, disturbing, he had taken to with relish. 

We stood and looked out at the surrounding houses and, far beyond them, the rolling bulk of the Flatirons on the horizon. Then he turned to me, all laughter gone from his face, and said:

'You know, if you want, you could stay here too. This house is pretty big for just one person.'

He said it almost casually, but I knew that if my answer disappointed him then the shutters would come down behind his eyes again. I paused. Did I want to be housemates with Harold? It would be good, I felt, not to be alone in an empty house, empty with the absence of its previous owners. And I liked Harold, I was sure. 

But that thought led to other, more troubling thoughts, about what exactly I felt for him - and what I was prepared to feel for him. I thought of my dreams of the Dark Man, and of His promises. I felt that His plans for me didn't involve Harold. But somehow, in Boulder and near the light of Mother Abagail, I didn't feel inclined to care about Randall Flagg and what He might want from me.

'I think that could be nice,' I said slowly, warming to the idea. 'I don't really fancy being alone. I got so used to having all of you with me on the road.'

Harold seemed pleased, although he quickly turned away and hurried off, calling back over his shoulder that he was going to start getting our things together. So, by that evening, we had moved into number 146 Arapahoe Avenue.

We spent several hours sorting through the belongings of the family who had lived there, to start with. That felt wrong, criminal even. Like we were trying to force ourselves in the space left by their lives, too-large feet being shoved into ill-fitting shoes. It didn't help that they had clearly been a young couple, only recently married. Their bodies weren't in the house. Maybe they'd cleared out, or been quick enough to die that they'd actually made it to a hospital. _Get there early,_ I thought, crazily. _Avoid the queues._ We made a little funeral pyre of their photo albums in the back garden, the personal things that make up a life, and stood in silence as we watched them burn.

That night we lit candles and spread them all over the kitchen, built up the fire, and did anything we could to banish the shadows. We prepared a hearty meal of tinned tuna, crackers, canned beans and peas, and made up glasses of Kool-Aid with sachets we found at the back of the cupboard. We talked as we made the meal, about the area, about what we wanted to do the next day, Harold even cracking a few jokes as he bustled about the table. It felt very domestic, comfortable, the firelight playing across our faces and casting our animated features in a forgiving light. Harold seemed happier than he had on the road, as if our new surroundings has reinvigorated him.

'So you're joining the Body Crew, huh?' I asked, wiping my mouth with a napkin. He nodded and gulped down some of his warm Kool-Aid.

'Yeah, I suppose I will. Why?'

'It just doesn't seem like a great job,' I winced. In my mind I saw the rack of brochures on Charlie's reception desk at the motel in Gamble, and that little kid's strawberry cowlick.

'Yeah, well... Someone has to do that stuff. Why not me?' He flushed a little.

'Don't get me wrong - I'm not making fun of you. I think it's great you want to get involved and really - really give this place a chance. I think I should probably find something useful to do with myself here.'

'What are you interested in?' Harold had his chin cradled in his hand, looking across the table at me intently.

'Well, apart from music - the piano - which I don't imagine is going to be of any help to anyone in this world… I don't know. I'd like to work with children, maybe. I wanted to be a teacher, you know… before. I was supposed to be starting my training around now.'

'Did you? I didn't know that.'

'I guess it never came up. How about you? What were you going to do?'

Harold shrugged as if it didn't matter, but his eyes told me something very different.

'College, I guess. Then… I always thought that I'd be a writer. It wasn't like I just _wanted_ to be one. I knew I would. It was all I could ever see for myself in the future. Even though all I was getting were rejection letters, I just sort of… took it for granted that one day it'd happen. One day.' He snorted, bitterly. 'That's looking a lot less likely now.'

There were a few moments of silence as we both thought on what he'd said. The days of published books were over for a while. Harold looked like he felt sick suddenly and pushed his unfinished plate away.

'You can still be a writer, Harold.' I said, quietly. 'Just because it can't be published in the way things used to be, it doesn't make your writing less important. In fact, it's more important now than it ever was. The things we've seen the last few weeks - what we've been through - it needs to be recorded, so the people who follow after us - our children -' 

I paused and tried to cover up my flub, failed badly. 

'I mean, you know, future generations - so they'll know what happened and they'll understand. That couldn't be any more important right now.'

A complex whirl of emotions moved across his face, too fast for me to see or understand them. His thin mouth worked and I thought for a moment that he might argue with what I'd said. Then, as if in the grip of some powerful spasm, he reached across the table and squeezed my hand. Once, hard, then retracted it. Suddenly he was on his feet, cleaning away the dinner plates, his hunched back towards me.

We went to bed early that night. Harold paused on the landing outside his room - he had taken the smaller one, not listening to my protests - and his eyes travelled from the floor, up to my face and back again, as if he were trying to come to some kind of decision.

I wavered too.

'Well, goodnight then, Harold,' I said, my voice cracking more than I would have liked.

'Yes - uh - goodnight,' he replied and, again, there was a moment as if he wanted to say something else. Then he abruptly turned away and swept into his room, the door closing with a _click._

Much later, when sleep wouldn't come and the moon rode high amongst the stars like a watchful eye, I got up and carefully let myself out onto our shared balcony. I breathed in the pure, slightly sweet night air, drew my blanket around my shoulders. It was quiet, like the nights on the road had been quiet, but this was the collective sound of many people failing to make noise, asleep or hushed in their homes. On the road had been wild silence, broken only by the cries of animals as unknown and strange to me as the land, and I found that I kind of missed it.

The only sound breaking this silence was the _tap-tap-tap-ching!_ of Harold's typewriter, which I could hear clearly even in my bedroom. It sounded like he was pounding away furiously at the keys, so hard that they would surely break. I wavered, picturing him in there, wondering what his face would do if I simply opened the door and stepped inside. Then I went back to bed. His typing didn't fall silent until long after the birds began calling out to the dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thank you so much if you're still reading this. I haven't updated for a couple of weeks because everything has been so busy, but I'm hopefully going to get the next few chapters up more quickly. The next maybe... 5? are written and will be posted shortly, if you're interested in sticking around.
> 
> I'm going to be introducing some other characters next chapter so I'm going to go ahead and tag them now. I promise they'll show up!


	10. Just In Reach

I opened the front door and stopped, dead. There was a man standing on the doorstep, his clenched fist raised as if to knock.

'Oh! Um… Hi?' I said, confused and a little wary. 

I had been heading out the front door to stand on the porch, just taking in the view; it was only our second morning in the Zone and I still got a thrill out of seeing the mountains which hemmed our little community in. Harold and I had spent the first few days just walking around Boulder, exploring, taking in all the differences between this place and the homes we had left behind. Slowly, I came to feel a sense that we had arrived, that the journey was at an end - for now, at least. Harold's thoughts were a little more impenetrable, although his good mood had seemed to last since arriving in Boulder, his steps beside mine light and unhurried.

The tall man's reaction to my greeting was puzzling. He placed his hands together in a gesture like a prayer and said, as if reciting from a teleprompter:

'Hello, my name is Tom Cullen. I'm forty-two years old, and developmentally disabled. Please do not be alarmed by my behaviour, for I have difficulty reading social cues. If you find my behaviour inappropriate to the situation please tell me and I will endeavour to change.'

'Oh, uh - hello Tom, nice to meet you,' I replied, and smiled. Tom grinned back and I felt instantly at ease. 'What can we do for you?'

'Mr Norris asked me to come down here and pass on that the Body Crew are getting together out at the bus station and that,' Tom scrunched his face a little, 'that one of you guys at 146 Arapahoe might want to come and help out.'

'Oh, right! I think Mr Norris probably meant Harold. I'll go tell him.' I paused. 'Thanks for coming down here to pass on the message. I don't suppose you know if any other jobs are going around here?'

Tom shrugged. 

'I don't know. Sorry. Mr Norris just said, could I please go down to Arapahoe, and pass on that the Body Crew are getting together at the bus station, and you might want to help out. I said yes because I was heading out this way anyway and because Mr Norris is okay. He told me if the Body Crew find any good stuff for my house, they'll be sure to let me know.'

I looked at him, quizzically.

'Stuff for your house?'

'Yeah! Stuffed animals, mannequins, lawn ornaments...' Tom ticked these off on his fingers. 'They're all part of my _décor_. That's what my friend Nick says. I'm on my way to see Nick right now.'

'Nick - is that Nick Andros?'

Tom's face brightened at the mention of the other man's name, like the sun cresting the top of Flagstaff. 

'Yeah, that's Nick. He's my main man. He's out at Mother Abagail's house right now. He's there a lot.'

I nodded. I was aware of Nick Andros, although we'd never been introduced. He was the figure always standing to the right of Mother Abagail, a small, enigmatic smile often playing about his lips. 

I had noticed him as we arrived; even though it had been Ray Brentner who had greeted us as our convoy drove up the turnpike, Nick had been there in the background, watching, his single, dark eye roving slowly over each of our faces in turn. 

Later, when we'd reached Boulder proper, Stu, Glen and Frannie had been ushered aside to be presented personally to Mother Abagail. Dayna, Harold and I had hung back, feeling a little out-of-place and - in Harold's case, somewhat predictably - irritated at being left behind. 

As the others disappeared into her house, Nick had looked back over his shoulder at us and made a gesture, touching his finger to his eye and then pointing at us diffidently. _See you around_ , he seemed to say. I understood then that he couldn't speak, and would later be told by Teddy Weizak that he was also deaf. Nick Andros exuded a feeling of calmness, of peace, and he intrigued me.

'Do you want to come in, Tom?'

Tom shook his head, emphatically.

'No, I've got to go. I don't want to be late.'

'Well, I wouldn't want to hold you up, but I hope I'll see you again soon.'

Tom nodded, and raised his hand.

'Bye then. Bye!' He called over his shoulder as he pounded away down the steps.

'Who was that?' Harold asked, coming up behind me and pulling on his jacket.

'A message for you - apparently that Body Crew are meeting at the bus station, if you were serious about wanting to join them.' 

I frowned a little, giving him a searching look. I still wasn't at all convinced that cleaning up bodies was a healthy way for an eighteen year old to be spending his time. 

'Hey, it's my dream career. Who needs college?'

I snorted and he smiled, a lopsided, secret little smile. I patted him on the back.

'Have a good day, then. Good luck. Make friends and influence people.'

He chuckled and loped down the steps. Hopped astride his motorcycle and threw me a last, sardonic little wave before he sped away up the street. I watched him leave, then turned back to the empty house. Sighed. Harold's sudden and newfound sense of civic duty was a little puzzling to me - I couldn't reconcile the person who I had met that day on the road, three weeks previously, with the young man who had volunteered for one of the worst jobs in the Zone - but it was also inspiring to me, and made me feel more than a little guilty about not following suit.

Some time later, as the shadows had begun to lengthen, I was in the front garden raking leaves when a hand touched my shoulder. I hadn't heard anyone approach and so at that touch I jumped and swung the rake around, visions of monster men with decoy trucks and handcuffs flitting through my brain. 

Nick Andros stood in front of me, staring alarmed at the raised rake. He lifted his hands quickly to reach out to me, palms open. His intention was plain. _I'm not going to hurt you, so please can we just take this down a notch._

'Oh, God! I'm so sorry! I just - I'm sorry,' I gabbled, face flushing with heat. 'I'll just - uh - put this over here…' I threw the rake to the side and whipped back to face him, stuffing my hair behind my ears and breathing deeply. 

Nick gave me a look which was long and measured, and - I was fairly sure - deeply amused. He smiled slightly and held out his hand. I stuck mine out in return, thinking he meant to shake, but then saw that he was instead holding out a small notebook. It was open to a page bearing the hand-written note:

_My name is Nick Andros. I can't hear or speak but I read lips. Tom Cullen said you wanted a job?_

'Oh yeah, I guess I do. I mean, I do, definitely. Do you have something for me to do?'

Nick flipped the page of his notebook over and scribbled something, then held it out to me again.

_We're putting together a Census Committee. To get the names of everyone in the Zone and take a count. It will be hard work so don't feel pressured if you're not up to it. But if you want a spot, the job's yours._

'Sure! Definitely! Anything I can do to be useful, I'd love.'

Nick nodded, smiled and gave me a thumbs up. I smiled back. 

'When do you need me to start?'

More scribbling. I waited, thinking to myself that before the end of the day I was going down to Boulder Public Library to find a book on American Sign Language.

_Not til tomorrow. Come to Mother A's house at 10AM, I'll introduce you to the others._

'Great,' I said, and looked at the house uncertainly. 'Do you want to come in? It isn't really - really a home yet, I'm afraid, we're still cleaning things up.'

_That's ok. I can't stay long. Tom said you live here with your boyfriend?_

'Yeah - I mean, no, Harold isn't… He isn't my boyfriend.' I replied, unhappy at the way it sounded in the open air. 'Hey, uh - have you been to the library? Is it, you know - it hasn't burned down, or something?'

_Yes, I've checked some books out myself. What are you looking for?_

I didn't want to mention my desire to check out a book about ASL, so I kept it vague.

'Oh, you know - I just want to read. Anything, really.'

Nick nodded, shifted on his feet.

_I've got to go. It was nice to meet you. See you tomorrow._

'Nice to meet you too,' I smiled at him warmly, and watched as he backed away, signing _see you later_ as he went. I'd learn that was what he'd said later that day, as I sat at the dining table, my nose in a book called _American Sign Language Made Easy_.

'What've you got there?' Harold asked playfully when he got home from his day out with the Body Crew, dropping his coat over the back of the chair beside me. It smelled like old death, stale and sick. I tried not to blanch, for Harold's sake.

'Just reading. How was the Crew?'

Despite the smell I felt suddenly like I wanted to reach up and plant a kiss on his cheek. I squashed the urge. Harold ignored the question; he had noted the title of the book and was frowning slightly, the easy smile faltering on his lips.

'Why are you learning ASL?'

'I think _learning_ is a little too ambitious a term right now. I'm just trying to get a few basics down. God, I wish we still had YouTube.'

'But why?' Harold asked again, and his tone was sharper.

'I met Nick Andros today. He was super nice. And guess what? He asked me to join a Census Committee!' I replied, looking up at Harold with excited eyes. 

Harold didn't seem to return my enthusiasm for enumerating the citizenry of Boulder, and turned away too quickly for me to read his expression. 

'But more importantly,' I decided to press him again, 'how was your day with the Crew?'

I moved behind him and put a hand on his arm. He shrugged and shot me a quick smile which didn't quite reach his eyes. Moved away, leaving my hand to hang in the space where his body had been.

'It was fine. Nothing to it. Like stacking cordwood.'

I recoiled a little at that, not sure if he was joking. His voice had been harsh. I wanted to reach out to him again, ask him if it was really okay, but he had already turned his back to me and started to prepare his meal. He didn't talk much for the rest of the evening, despite my attempts to get him to tell me about his day, and swept up to bed without wishing me goodnight. 


	11. When You & Sleep Escape Me

The next day I set off for Mother Abagail's house at 9AM. I was sure that it would only take me half an hour to walk up to Mapleton Avenue, if that, but I was still unsure on the network of roads and I didn't want to risk being late.

As I approached the house, with its encampment of hopeful disciples gathered all around, I began to feel very nervous. I'd never actually been face-to-face with Mother Abagail, apart from in my dreams - and thinking of the dreams only made me feel worse. What if, when I looked deep into her ancient eyes, she saw the shadow of the Dark Man inside me, looking back at her?

I needn't have worried; I wouldn't meet Mother Abagail that day. But I recognised Ray Brentner immediately. She was standing on the porch, her hand on her walkie-talkie, deep in discussion with another woman I didn't recognise. I picked my way through the tents camped on the lawn, looking uncertainly from Ray to the stranger. When I got close enough for them to hear me I spoke, earning myself a suspicious look from Ray.

'Hi, my name's Christine Ivers. Nick asked me to come? Sorry I'm early.'

Ray's face eased a little and she nodded.

'Right, the census thing. That's Nick's baby. He's inside with Mother A. I'll get him.'

With that she disappeared back through the open doorway. I surreptitiously peered inside, seeing only shadows within. The woman who had been speaking to Ray rocked on her heels and smiled at me. 

'My name's Sue,' she said after a few moments, and put out a hand. I shook, gratefully. 'Sue Stern.'

'You're on the Census Committee too?'

'Yeah, seems like,' she answered, eyebrows going up. 'Though I understand that we'll have to be properly approved at the first Town Meeting. Just a formality though, Nick says.'

'Town Meeting? I didn't know we had those.'

'We don't. Leastways, not yet. First one's in a couple weeks. By then, Ray reckons we'll be five hundred strong in the Zone.'

I let out a low whistle. Just as I did, Nick appeared in the doorway. I brightened to see him. 

_Thanks for coming_ , Nick said, using his pad. _You two are the only ones who turned up, so you're my favorite people today._

'Who else were you expecting?' I asked. 

_Two guys called Charlie Impening and Henry Dunbarton said they'd help but they haven't showed. Sandy DuChiens too, though she sent word she's sick. Sorry, but I think it'll just be you._

'Fine by me,' Sue said, winking at me and grinning. 'I've met that Impening fellow and he's a miserable son of a bitch - excuse me, but I speak my mind. I think the two of us will get along just fine without him.'

I liked her instantly.

It quickly became clear to me that Ray's estimate of 500 Zoners in a few weeks was no low-ball number. Nick thought we'd be several thousand by Christmas. He explained the idea behind the Census Committee was to get an exact idea of how many we had, so there'd be no issues with food shortages come winter time and so that the Zone's one medical professional, a veterinarian named Dick Ellis, could recruit as much help as he needed with advanced warning. I agreed that it sounded like a great idea, and with that Sue and I were sent on our way to get started. I walked away from Mother Abagail's house with a feeling of anticlimax - and overwhelming relief.

We spent the whole day trudging up and down the streets of Lower Arapahoe, ticking them off on a map, and noting which houses were occupied and which weren't. Whenever we came to an occupied house we knocked and spoke to the residents, asking for their names, their ages, their pre-plague occupations. Most people who opened the door did so blearily, confusedly, still getting used to the idea of getting callers. Of having a home at all, I thought.

It was tiring work, and I enjoyed every minute of it. Sue and I got on like we'd known each other from Day One. Which, I supposed, was almost the truth. It was murder on my feet, though, and when I got home at the end of that first day I pulled my shoes off expecting them to be rubbed raw and running with blood. They weren't, although I had several good-size, juicy blisters coming up on the back of my heels. The sun was setting but Harold wasn't yet home from his work with the Body Crew.

I sat on the steps which led up to our porch and reflected that I should really search out a bench from somewhere, so I could watch the world go by without getting dust on the back of my jeans. The sun was just starting to dip and the shadows were lengthening, the light ebbing from the sky. A cold chill crept into my flesh and I pulled my jacket around me. Soon it would be winter, I thought, and I would have spent a whole season away from home.

I was staring up at the clouds when a movement in the corner of my eye made me swing my head around. My first thought was that it would be Harold, home and full of stories about his day, but as I turned I saw that it was Nick Andros coming up the steps towards me.

'Nick!' I called out, happily. He smiled at me and gave me a small salute. 

'What can I do for you?' I asked, patting the step beside me. 

He sat and held something out towards me. It was a book, I saw, with a pale purple cover. A twilight sky and the silhouette of a rabbit outlined against the horizon. I took it, curious. Nick got his notepad out and held it up so I could read it.

_You said you wanted something to read - I just finished this and I thought you might like it._

_'Watership Down_?' I read the title, and grinned. 'I've heard of this. There's an old movie of it, I think. It scared the life out of me as a kid. Isn't it a children's book?'

Nick shook his head vigorously, wrote quickly on his pad.

_Maybe it's a kids book but it's not just for them. It's really good._

He hesitated a moment, then continued.

_It made me think a lot. About how to rebuild a society, after it's all taken away from you._

I laughed, thinking he was joking, but then saw his serious expression.

'Sorry, I'm just surprised. Isn't it about rabbits?'

Nick shrugged, wryly, as if to say _that's true, but so what?_ His pen moved across the paper.

_It's actually creepily familiar. They have to leave their home and travel across the country. One of them has psychic visions. Dreams. And there's a bad guy, who wants to destroy them._

I felt cold. _A bad guy_. We had one of those out to get us, for sure. I suddenly felt a lot more kinship with these rabbits than I'd expected. 

'Can I keep this?' I asked, holding up the book, trying to change the subject. Nick nodded, gesturing to me, and I understood that it was a gift.

'Thanks, Nick. That's really thoughtful.'

Full dark was descending by then, and I realised that it would be getting very hard for Nick to read my lips. 

'Why don't you come in? I'd offer you a cup of tea but I don't have teabags. Or hot water. But I think we've got some… Kool-Aid, if that sounds good?''

Nick laughed softly and nodded, then followed me inside the house. I clattered around lighting candles whilst he made up the drinks, having as much luck finding things in the cupboards as I did. I was still so unused to being in the house. We sat at the table in the kitchen and I saw, with slight embarrassment, that Nick had found _American Sign Language Made Easy_ on the coffee table. 

He held it up, eyebrows raised, and I shrugged. 

'I was just trying to learn a few signs - to make speaking with you a little earlier…'

He gestured palm up, _like what?_

I looked at him, a little doubtfully, then reached over and opened the book to the fourth page. Basic greetings. With Nick's encouragement I attempted _hello_ , _goodbye_ and _how are you?_ He patiently corrected me, demonstrating the hand movements, and I copied him carefully. I had a lot of work to do if I was going to become competent in even the basics, but Nick was a patient teacher, and I was keen to learn.

In the end and with the help of his pad, Nick and I sat speaking for close to two hours, our drinks forgotten. He told me his story - or some of it, at least. About growing up in the orphanage, bullied and lonely. About Rudy Sparkman, who had taught him that he was a blank page. About his travels with Tom Cullin, which sounded by turns terribly exciting and hugely sweet. Darkness descended in the room until only our faces were illuminated in the flickering glow of the candlelight.

Nick had just sent me into a fit of giggles when the front door opened and Harold came in. He was talking as he did so, high and conversational, just saying:

_'God, Chrissy, you wouldn't believe how many - '_

when his eyes seemed to register that I wasn't alone. I was laughing still and wiping tears from my eyes as I turned to Harold to greet him.

'Hey, Harold!' I called out, and turned to the side so I could give Nick a clearer view of my face as I spoke. 'This is Nick Andros. I don't know if you've met?'

'No. We haven't had the pleasure. How do you do, Nick?'

I was surprised at Harold's tone - flat, strained - and I peered at him in the gloom. His face had gone blank and cold, his eyes two hot little stones.

Nick held up a hand. He was leaning on the table, his dark hair falling across his face and his eye moving between Harold and me. A ghost of a smile still touched his lips but it was fading slightly, as he took in Harold's waxy expression.

'Nick and I were just talking about this time he and Tom - '

'Sounds very interesting.' Harold flashed Nick a quick, wolfish smile that was almost more unnerving than his stony face. He stalked past us and started up the stairs.

'You'll have to excuse me. I'm very tired, and I think I'm going to head to bed.' 

He called this over his shoulder, so Nick missed it completely, but I felt that he sensed the general gist of Harold's mood. I looked at him, a little helplessly, and Nick shrugged. Stood and stretched, then gestured to the watch on his wrist and then, with a thumb, towards the door.

_It's getting late. I'd better go._

'Okay, sure. Thanks so much for coming by, Nick. And thanks for the book.' I tapped it with my knuckle. Nick nodded, then paused, wrote something.

 _If you're really interested, I've been teaching Tom to sign. You could come sit in._ He paused, and added another line whilst I watched. _Only if you want to._

'I'd love to!' I replied, and meant it.

Later, I paused at Harold's bedroom door and listened. Unusually, I couldn't hear any keys tapping away in the room beyond.

'Harold?' I called out, softly. 'Are you awake?' No answer. 'You didn't eat anything tonight. I thought I could make you, like… a bologna sandwich, or something, if you want?'

Still no answer. Maybe he had gone to bed, after all. I waited a minute, then went to my own room and closed the door. Leaned against it, head back, thinking. I didn't want to let the sun go down on whatever this quarrel was between us. I didn't want to go to bed wondering what I'd done to hurt him. 

If this had been on the road I would have just slipped into his tent, put my arms around him. But since arriving in Boulder we hadn't held each other like that, hadn't taken comfort in each other's warmth like we had when the nights had stretched ahead like a strange canyon road. For the first few days it had felt like that was because of a sizzling potential in the air between us - static, charged. Like we were just waiting for the time to ripen, for that moment - longed for, breathless - when he would cup my face in his hands and - 

Then things had changed. In the space of only one day he had seemed to harden towards me, and I wanted desperately to walk that change back. To retrace our steps and be how we were when we first arrived in the Zone. Perhaps even further back, to the nights we had spent holding hands in his shivering tent, alone together against the dreams. I shook my head, pressed my hands to my face. 

When I was laying in bed, trying to sleep and failing badly, I heard the gentle _click_ of his door opening. The sound of him padding, softly, downstairs. I wondered how such a tall man could move so soundlessly. Then a clatter of cutlery, the bang of the cupboard door. _Making himself a sandwich,_ I thought. _I bet it's bologna._ _Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's actually Stu who reads and talks about Watership Down in the book, but I wanted to include it because I've always loved the references to it and it's going to come up again later. Book!Nick is a big reader, so I think he'd forgive me.
> 
> On the subject of Nick, I think of him as being physically like Henry Zaga, but personality-wise probably a little more like the book. Just my personal preference and the approach I'm taking in this fic.
> 
> I hope these last 2 chapters are interesting - I am going somewhere with all this, I promise, and I hope it will be enjoyable when we get there.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> I'm mostly basing the timeline and the characters on their depiction in the 2020 miniseries, especially Harold, but I'm also drawing from the book sometimes.


End file.
